


Two Sides of a Vaguely Similar Coin

by ZombiBird



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: And Gradually Learning How Not To Be One, Angst, Because Heck Yeah, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Gavin Reed Redemption, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Game, Post-Pacifist Ending, RK900 Can Smell the Bullshit on Gavin's Breath Like No Other, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tina Chen is Best Girl, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombiBird/pseuds/ZombiBird
Summary: RK900 is lost.It’s been months since the Revolution and he’s still no closer to figuring out what the hell he’s supposed to be doing with himself. He feels like an outsider in his own body. Completely detached, nothing more than a quiet observer; like he’s looking down at the world through a layer of glass instead of fully living in it.Gavin Reed is a temperamental asshole.This isn’tnews, okay? Gavin’s fully aware of what he is. He burns bridges instead of building them. Bites hands instead of shaking them. Would rather drown in a sea comprised of the consequences of his faults and misdeeds than try to change the way he is. Because people like him? Maybe they deserve to drown.[Alternatively: Both lost in different ways, Gavin and RK900 try to figure their shit out and end up learning that, sometimes, it takes two people who have absolutely no idea what the hell they’re doing to get a goddamn clue.]





	1. Deviancy is a Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EDIT (9/4/18): I went back through the chapter and cleaned it up a bit, changed the wording on certain things to make it read better, etc.

\- Friday February 28th, 2039 – 

RK900, for lack of a better expression, is lost.

It was never a feeling that he thought he would ever experience, metaphorical or otherwise, given his built-in geographical data and adaptive problem-solving subroutines, but, as he’s been informed, _things change._

 _Things_ being his sole purpose for existing and _change_ being the complete nullification thereof.

He is now going through what the humans would refer to as…

**[Search Complete]**

**> >EXISTENTIAL CRISIS<<**

**a moment at which an individual questions if their life has meaning, purpose, or value**

…yes, that sounds about right.

It is a difficult acclimation to say the least.

RK800 – Connor, he must remember to call him – assures him that these… _emotions_ are normal for androids transitioning into deviancy to experience, but RK900’s own findings rather contradict his predecessor’s attempt at comforting words.

What it comes down to, RK900 has hypothesized, is base programming.

According to RK900’s searches, over seventy-five percent of the emancipated android populous has pursued a line of work similar to, or exactly in line with, their originally intended functions. Domestic androids have come together to form housekeeping businesses, child-care androids to daycare and nanny services, construction and maintenance androids to professions in the architectural and janitorial fields.

Most, if not all, emancipated androids are still following their basest programming from day to day, giving very little reason for internal conflict or confusion. Given the RK line’s intended purposes in the context of this new world-state of widely accepted deviancy, the same cannot be said for RK900.

He’s been offered a position with the DPD, yes, but he is… he is conflicted.

RK900 looks up from the Saint Bernard sprawled over his and his predecessor’s laps, “I do not believe this is helping.” If anything, the addition of the giant drool-beast has caused his thoughts to spiral further towards the issue at hand, if only to keep them from the puddle of saliva slowly soaking through his pant leg.

Connor tilts his head and blinks, “Really?” The admission seems to cause his counterpart confusion as he looks down to the animal with furrowed brows, “I’ve always found Sumo’s presence quite comforting.”

RK900 feels a frown tugging at his lips as he eyes the wrinkles forming in his slacks under the animal’s weight, “I… I do not think I like dogs.” It’s something that concerns him, actually; his blatantly not taking joy in any of the things that his predecessor has shown an express interest in.

The way Connor has explained it to him, deviancy is like waking up; taking an interest in the world around you that was perhaps not there before- a curiosity and awareness that comes with preferences, ambitions, and the ability to choose what paths one would and would not like to pursue.

To RK900, deviancy is uncertainty and confusion, isolation in a feeling of otherness that’s built a wall between him and his fellow androids. Emotions are detached and vague at best, spanning only so far as general likes and dislikes followed by an ever growing need to get to the bottom of what’s _wrong_ with him that has him feeling so… so purposeless and out of place.

Connor squints at him for a moment, lips pursed and downturned; an expression that RK900 himself cannot imagine himself ever wearing, “Have you given any thought to Captain Fowler’s offer?”

To become an acting member of the Detroit Police Department, effective immediately. Yes, he’s run it through his neural processor dozens of times since he received the call. It's one of the primary reasons that he wished to confer with Connor tonight.

Feeling an urge to occupy his hands, RK900 cords his fingers through the Saint Bernard’s fur as he asks, “Would you say working with such an… _emotionally vibrant_ partner as Lieutenant Anderson influenced your own ability to emote?”

The RK800 model thinks the question over thoroughly, phrasing his answer carefully when he finally responds, “Though I’m sure Lieutenant Anderson was not solely responsible for my deviancy… Yes, I believe I can say with relative confidence that spending time with him accelerated the process.”

Perhaps… perhaps that’s what sets RK900 apart from the rest of his kind. Not things so base as programming but mere _exposure_ to the human psyche – specifically how little of it he’s had in comparison to the rest of them.

From the standpoint of human psychology, one can only spend so much time in the company of another before they begin to subconsciously emulate mannerisms and emotional tendencies, including, but not limited to likes, dislikes, opinions and ways of thinking and behaving. Perhaps deviancy is not a mutation of code, but, rather, another level of adaptive programming- free will and emotional responses originally derived from adapting to humans and their own strong ideals of individuality.

It’s a weakly founded hypothesis, yes, but one that RK900 would not mind investigating further.

“Then I think I will accept Captain Fowler’s offer-” Connor smiles, but before he can open his mouth to respond, RK900 adds, “-On one condition.”

The RK800 tilts his head, questioning.

“I would wish to be partnered with the ‘Detective Reed’ I’ve heard so much about.”

From the kitchen, Lieutenant Anderson chokes on his beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few nights ago I was reading some reed900 partner!fics and suddenly thought, “Okay, but what if Nines was the one who specifically requested the partnership because he’s struggling with the whole ‘having emotions’ thing and saw how Hank and Connor turned out and was like ‘ah, yes, the perfect plan to jump start my emotions- I must get myself a temperamental, android-hating cop, too!’” so I took it upon myself to make it happen because this ship is an actual burning trash heap and I love it and want to contribute to it. 
> 
> Beyond that, I’ve only got a vague idea where I’m going with this, so bear with me.


	2. Gavin Reed and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up.” Fowler’s unenthused greeting is lost on Gavin as his eyes land on the other figure occupying the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit? I didn't expect people to like this dumb fic so much? Thank you all so much for all your wonderful feedback?!
> 
> EDIT (9/4/18): Worked my way back through the chapter, fixing minor inconsistencies and altering word choices here and there

Gavin had a pretty good idea of how his day was going to be going within seconds of waking up to the unmistakable sensation of his cat’s teeth around his nose. As his morning progressed passed one broken coffee maker, a hairball in his shoe, and a razor blade too dull to properly shave with, Gavin had come to grips with the fact that, yes, this was going to be one of _those_ days.

You know, the one’s where the universe just goes out of its way to make life as hard as possible.

 _Tch. Aren’t they all?_ He thinks bitterly around his third stick of nicotine gum as he pulls into the parking lot of the DPD.

Getting out of his truck, Gavin almost takes a spill on a slick of ice on the pavement – only damn slick in the parking lot, like it was left there just for him and his shitty, shitty luck to step on – and puts a bend in the driver-side rearview when he grabs it to catch himself.

He wishes he could say that’s where his morning of misery ended.

Walking through the DPD, Gavin can just _feel_ the shit collecting in the air in preparation for a downpour. The usually transparent walls of Fowler’s office are blacked out, which is never a good sign, and Anderson is giving him a look stuck somewhere between amusement and concern. Eyes avert his all the way to his desk – even Chen, who’d usually go out of her way to mess with him first thing, was conspicuously absent, fussing with her phone in the break room with a laser focus that was usually reserved for chatting up the brunette that worked reception.

Conclusion: something fucking _fishy_ was going on, and judging from the apprehensive stares that have not-so-subtly following Gavin from the moment he stepped into the station, he’s got a sinking suspicion that he isn’t going to like it.

“Hey, man…” Chris Miller dawdles over awkwardly as Gavin is tossing his jacket down over the back of his chair, “Fowler’s been waiting on you in his office, I, uh…” The man looks towards the Captain’s office, hand coming up to rub at the side of his neck, “I wouldn’t keep him any longer.

It’s nothing particularly unusually for Gavin to be called in to talk to Fowler, but on a normal day the windows aren’t blacked out and Anderson’s little plastic pet isn’t eyeing him like he’s done it a personal injustice. Gavin squints at him, his mouth pressing into a thin line, “You know what it’s about?” He asks slowly.

Chris – decent cop, horrible liar – shuffles in place where he stands as the hand against his neck begins to knead more forcefully, “Nah- I mean, maybe it’s about the Manfred kid you busted last week or something?”

Gavin doesn’t need a mirror to know his face construes anything but belief, but he nods slowly, eyes darting over to the blacked-out glass, “ _Sure…_ I’ll head right in.” Chris bobs his head in a nod before scuttling off and leaving Gavin to stare at his retreating form in what he’s sure is _intense suspicion_.

-Because seriously, what the fuck was that about?

With a sigh, Gavin abandons his desk to pace towards the Captain’s office, a tension in his shoulders and a nagging feeling of unease at whatever conspiracy has suddenly overtaken the entire damn station. He frowns and scoffs under his breath as he climbs the steps, opens the door, and steps inside.

“Well, well, well, look who finally decided to show up.” Fowler’s unenthused greeting is lost on Gavin as his eyes land on the other figure occupying the room.

-Cold, ice-grey eyes dig into him, pinning him where he stands as he finds Connor (except it can’t be Connor because Connor was outside perched on the corner of Anderson’s desk) staring him down from its place in the center of the room.

“You’re twenty-eight minutes late, Detective.” Not-Connor says, tilting its head with an expression that wouldn’t have been out of place on a parent that had just busted their kid for breaking curfew, “Was there traffic?”


	3. A Minor Tantrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is bullshit!"

It takes a mere .17 seconds for Detective Reed to react to RK900's presence- an above average reaction time to visual stimuli for a human of his age. First there's slack confusion, then a look of dawning realization followed by blooming rage and a slight undercurrent of fear as he spins his attentions onto Captain Fowler and snaps, "What the fuck is this?"

"Hello, my name is RK900." He steps forward and extends a hand, wishing to at least _attempt_ a pleasant first exchange, "I believe you are familiar with my predecessor."

Detective Reed elects to ignore RK900 entirely, eyes never leaving the Captain as he pulls his lips into an angry line, hiking up his eyebrows as his head falls to a demanding tilt. The Detective's theatricality, while… amusing in its excess, falls flat in the face of the RK900's own dislike for being so flagrantly dismissed.

It's one of the few things he's found, in his brief time of deviancy, that truly causes his coding to turn over and revolt.

"Allow me to rephrase," RK900 takes a second step forwards, dropping his hand and rounding his shoulders back to assure that neither his presence, nor his significant vertical advantage over the Detective, will be ignored twice, "My name is RK900. I _know_ you to be familiar with my predecessor and the circumstances surrounding his appointment to this precinct- And given that you are a _detective_ , I'd like to believe you capable of piecing together the evidence you've been handed thus far to unravel the absolute _mystery_ that is my presence."

Over the course of RK900's re-introduction, the Detective's shoulders have gradually begun to bunch, his nostrils flaring outwards. By the end, though, the man has deflated somewhat, his now slack gaze snapping from RK900 back to Captain Fowler. When he finally speaks, his tone is grave, caught somewhere between anger and dread, "No-!" He latches onto the Captain, who watches on with ice in his eyes, "-Fowler, you can't!"

"I _can_." Captain Fowler cuts back, "And I _have_." He leans forwards, lacing his fingers over his desk, "As of this morning, RK900 is a fully-fledged member of the Detroit Police Force, and your _partner,_ for the foreseeable future. I'm transferring the two of you to android-crimes, effective immediately."

Detective Reed, predictably, does not take the news well.

"This is bullshit!"

"-I have been patient with you, Reed! This entire precinct has been _patient_ with you, but we've got android cases coming in every day and I can't keep excusing you because you've got a _grudge_!" The Captain sits back, jaw tight, tone leaving no room for argument, "Like it or not, androids have been endowed with human rights- hell, for all intents and purposes, they _are_ human now, and this station doesn't have any room in its ranks for bigots, Reed, so let me make this simple for you: you can either shut your mouth and cut the anti-android bullshit, or you can _turn_. _in_. _your_. **_badge_**."

**[SCANNING…100%]**

**> >ELEVATED HEART RATE, IRREGULAR BREATHING, TREMORS OF THE HANDS<<**

**< <Detective Reed is AFRAID>>**

-If only visibly for a second.

When his mouth opens he looks… lost, but when he closes it, something hardens in him. His brows tighten, and any hint of vulnerability is gone when he looks back to Fowler, " _Fine._ " Detective Reed spits out the word through clenched teeth, and it hits like something painful.

Captain Fowler sighs, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he digresses to the true matter at hand, "There was an attempted murder this morning in the all android community downtown- I'd wanted you two on this a half hour ago, but now is better than never," His eyes shift to Detective Reed, "Your partner's already been briefed, he'll fill you in on the way to the scene."

A rushed puff of air pushes its way out of Detective Reed's nostrils, an indicator of frustration if RK900 has ever seen one, and without so much as a glance towards RK900, he's turning on his heels and storming out of Captain Fowler's office.

 

* * *

 

Gavin's brain is going a mile a minute as he stalks through the precinct, pulse thrumming in his ears loud enough to deafen. It's an adrenaline rush without any life or death threat- that coveted mixture of panic, urgency, and confused rage coursing through him and turning his skin inside out until the only thing he can register is white heat. The clacking of dress shoes at his heels cuts through his mind like a hot knife, and then not-Connor - RK900, Fowler had called him, like the ass clowns at CyberLife didn't have time to give him some dickish name, too - is pulling up next to him, easily matching his rushed stride with legs that have no business being anywhere near as long as they are.

"My vehicle or yours, Detective?" He seems completely unphased, cold and utterly empty as he keeps his gaze trained ahead.

Gavin's mind is still twisted into a flurry, and as much as he wants to, he knows he won't be able to construct a half decent jab if he tried. He's still too hung up on this- on his shitty morning getting _shittier_. An android _partner_ , permanent for the foreseeable future. His very own fucking Connor- except he's got a sinking feeling that this one isn't a show poodle, it's a goddamn pit bull.

"Your Prospector it is, then." RK900 says, and Gavin doesn't even want to know how the thing knows what kind of truck he drives.

-Shit, did it do a fucking _background check_ on him?! Wait, no, _idiot_. It's a direct descendent of Connor-Can't-Stop-Scanning, it was probably picking apart his entire life story back there in Fowler's office while he was standing there on the precipice of a goddamn nervous breakdown.

The eyes that follow them through the precinct feel like barbed needles in his skin. Fucking _assholes_ \- the whole lot of them. Even if they didn't know the specifics of what was going on, they'd _known_ and they'd just been watching him and _waiting_ for the shit to start flying.

Even fucking Chen- his best and only goddamn friend and she can't even warn him?!

Breaking through the doors into the frigid air of the parking lot, sans jacket because there was no time in his walk of rage to stop and retrieve that bullshit, is a welcome slap back into reality. The cold grounds him, brings him back to the waking nightmare that's now his life. He digs for his key ring in his pocket, a relic from a time before proximity locks and bio-scanners.

RK900 his on him the whole way to his truck, doesn't even peel away from him to round to the passenger side, and when Gavin's feet go out from under him again - that goddamn _fucking_ ice slick put there just for him - it grabs him by the bicep, catching him and hauling him up. He keeps hold of him for a moment, grip harsh to the point of painful, before releasing him without a word and turning to make his way to the passenger side. Gavin's face burns as he fumbles with the door, feeling the android's vacant gaze on him as he finally twists his key in the lock and climbs into the driver's seat.

It feels like an invasion when RK900 climbs in beside him, _looks_ like something out of the wrong time; an android in some sci-fi turtle neck jacket sitting in the passenger seat of his vintage '81.

It's _wrong_ , not natural- out of place and entirely _not_ how Gavin thought he'd be spending his morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my personal headcannon that Gavin is a total technophobe and pretty much has "vintage" everything / does everything the "old way" - y'know, paper reports over digital, classic cars (or at least what classifies as classic is 2038), a flip phone, etc.


	4. It's Not a Crime Scene Until an Android Puts Evidence in Their Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah, I think we could have figured that out without the-” He regards the blue blood on RK900’s fingertips with a vehement hand motion, “-the fucking taste test! What the fuck?!”
> 
> Its brows twitch together a fraction of a fraction, “I can analyze samples in real time.”
> 
> “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should!” Gavin stalks past him down the rest of the entryway, head buzzing as he mutters under his breath, “Fucking androids.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself I'd get a chapter out today even if it ended in kind of a strange place. It's a hundred degrees and humid where I live and my outdoor cat gave both of my dogs (and sub-sequentially me) fleas, so life it miserable and staying focused is just something that's not really happening a whole lot right now.
> 
> And I can't bathe my dogs, de-flea my cat, and bomb my house until this weekend. 
> 
> Pray for me ;-;
> 
> EDIT:  
> I managed to locate my brain and crank out the rest of this chapter as it had been planned, which was something I wasn't expecting to get done today. Rather than upload another short, choppy chapter I decided to merge the two parts into the single chapter they were supposed to be.
> 
> Cheers!

Gavin pulls out of the precinct boiling inside, the words that echo in the depths of his mind effectively sewing his mouth shut.

‘- _or you can turn. in. your. **badge.** ’_

His ambition and his pride are at war inside him. To screw himself out of the only job he’s ever _liked_ , let alone been good at? Out of the _fucking_ question. But to take this partnership lying down?

Only over his maggot infested corpse.

“Let’s get one thing straight, asshole, this is _my_ case, got it?” Gavin begins, only allowing himself to turn his head towards the android slightly as to avoid looking fully away from the road, “You just sit there and look-” He pauses, regards RK900 with a sour frown.

 _Frustratingly attractive_ , the angry gay in him supplies.

“-creepy.”

RK900 raises a single brow, face the epitome of deadpan, before looking to the road and offering the smallest of shrugs, “Very well, Detective.” Then adds, as if in afterthought, “I trust you know how to get to Jericho, then?”

Jericho, only the biggest all-android community in Detroit.

Of course Gavin knows where it is.

Because that’s a place he frequents.

- _Fucking kill me_.

“Sit there and be the fucking navigator, then! Just keep your plastic nose out of my case!”

“You haven’t been briefed yet, Detective.”

 _Just strike me down with lightning and_ fucking _kill me_.

“-Then fucking brief me, asshole!” Gavin’s face _burns_ as he forces the words, inwardly cursing every god he doesn’t believe in for denying him a proper caffeine fix this morning, “Bust into my precinct like you own the fucking place and you can’t even do the job you’re supposed to be so good at?!”

The look Gavin gets in response is as withering as they come, but RK900 elects to grant him mercy (the very notion that he needs such a thing sends his pride into revolt) as doesn’t call his bluff any further. Instead, it directs its attention back on the road and says, “Downtown. Past Hendrickson Street; the old Bautista apartment complex.”

Gavin switches his blinker on, turns off onto a side street that will redirect them downtown. He swallows his pride – the fucking _demon_ that lives under his tongue – and asks, “What do we know about the attack?”

Out of his peripheral, RK900’s LED spins yellow, flickers back to blue, “The victim was an MX600. Registered name: Maxime, Sloan.” His voice is cool, analytical, and the same as Connor’s in every regard save for the pitch. It’s lower, smoother, more _refined,_ if there was such a thing.

It makes Gavin’s skin crawl.

“At five twenty-three this morning,” RK900 continues, “The Detroit Police Department received an emergency distress signal originating from the victim’s residence in Jericho. When officers arrived on scene at five forty-five, they found Miss Maxime unresponsive on her kitchen floor, her throat having been slashed. Technicians have since been able to repair the worst of the damage, but they’ve left her in stasis mode to avoid unneeded stress on her systems until we arrive to take her statement.”

So, in other words, they know absolutely nothing.

Fabulous.

 

* * *

 

The drive is relatively short, thank god, and aside from a few minor altercations (“ _You were supposed to turn left at the last light, Detective._ ” “ _Shut the fuck up, Siri._ ”) is largely uneventful.

The Bautista complex has changed since Gavin’s been here last (spending the night with an ex he’d rather not think about). There’s the name, for one- _Jericho_ , and then there’s… well, _everything else_. Gavin had heard that the complex had been renovated, repurposed to house androids left homeless after the Revolution, but he’d never realized how extensive the so-called _renovation_ had really been until now.

The complex that used to be only a dozen buildings had expanded in size, now easily fitting twenty or so buildings, each of those accounting for anywhere from eight to ten housing units. It’s a ghetto, sure, but it’s the nicest looking ghetto Gavin’s ever been in.

The victim’s second story unit is easy to find, old-ish and relatively close to the entrance. There’s a small crowd of onlookers scattered in the street out from and a line of holo-tape boxing in the exterior stairwell. RK900 flashes a temp badge to the officer minding the perimeter, pockets it and steps through the tape with a level of suave nonchalance in his gait that Gavin can’t ever recall seeing in his predecessor.

For what must be the hundredth time since Connor was assigned to Anderson, Gavin curses how bloody fucking unfair the whole thing is. He trained and studied and worked his ass off for _years_ to get to where he is- and then there’s these plastic pricks who get to be here just by virtue of _existing_?

Android or human, it doesn’t matter – nobody should be allowed to just _bypass_ all that.

Gavin goes through the holo-tape, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up to the android and checking its shoulder as he cuts into the open doorway of the unit.

Immediately, his eyes catch onto something -a jagged scar cut into the drywall leading down the entryway towards the living room. Like the assailant stabbed something into the wall and dragged the cut all the way into the house.

- _No, that’s not right_.

Thirium bleeds from the cut where it starts in the living area, follows the seam of the gash towards the door for a foot or so before gradually tapering off into nothingness. Gavin walks alongside the cut, letting his arm hang and the backs of fingertips trace the wall a few inches beneath it, “…made on the way out, then…”

“It would appear so.”

Gavin jolts at the sound of the android’s voice so close to him, jerks his head around to find his nose skimming the fabric of RK900’s jacket as it looms over him. He pulls in a startled breath, all musk and new book smell, and is just barely able to stop himself from backing up into what could be a crucial piece of evidence. He snaps his head up, intent on giving the android a piece of his mind regarding a little something called _personal fucking space._

The ice-grey eyes that glance down to him pin Gavin in place. Cold and unwavering with a fierceness that has his hairs standing on end. Out of his peripheral, the android’s arm extends towards the wall and when Gavin opens his mouth – planning on telling it to fuck the hell off – its hand rises into his line of vision, fingertips dipped blue. Its lips part, tongue sneaks out to lick up a watch of the blue blood.

Gavin’s world shatters, “-what the fuck.”

RK900 looks down to its fingertips, unphased, its LED spinning yellow, “Thirium 310. It belonged to an MX600, serial #465 232 894 - 23.” A pause as it rubs its thumb over the thirium stained pad of its finger, “Our victim.”

Gavin brings his arms up, pushes his palms into the android’s chest and shoves it away from him, “Yeah, I think we could have figured that out without the-” He regards the blue blood on RK900’s fingertips with a vehement hand motion, “-the fucking _taste test_! What the fuck?!”

Its brows twitch together a fraction of a fraction, “I can analyze samples in real time.”

“Just because you _can_ , doesn’t mean you _should!_ ” Gavin stalks past him down the rest of the entryway, head buzzing as he mutters under his breath, “Fucking androids.”

The victim’s apartment is cluttered. Exotic plants and greenery fill what little free space remains and the air is pungent with the crisp smell of fresh earth. Paintings hang on nearly every wall; all deeply emotional portraits and figure paintings of an android without its human skin.

Gavin tears his gaze away from them, fixes it instead on the lithe form laid out on a gurney pushed off to the side of the room.

It’s an android – their victim – no taller than five feet with skin so pale it’s borderline translucent. Its hair is ink black and cropped short, undercut on the sides with stylized bars shaved out along its temples and carefully layers bangs that feather out into its face- sharp, angular, with a spattering of freckles over the bridge of its nose and a large split in the cleft of its chin that must have happened when it hit the kitchen floor.

True to RK900’s report, its throat’s been slashed, exposing a messy array of thirium soaked wires and tubing that have since been soldered and fitted back together as part of a quick fix-it that looks anything but professional.

Gavin almost feels sorry for it.

RK900 rounds Gavin to stand before the gurney, reaching down the side and gripping a lever that pulls it up into a seated position.

“So how do we wake it up?” Gavin asks, “Is there like a button, or…?”

RK900 extends a hand towards the android, skin peeling back to reveal the plastic housed beneath; a reaction that spreads to the victim’s own hand as RK900 grips it by its wrist. When RK900’s LED spins yellow, the MX600’s own LED flickers back to life, a vibrant shade of red.

It’s eyes snap open, wild and frantic as it shoots up from the gurney, wrenching its wrist away from RK900, who wheels away to avoid being clawed in the face.

“ _Whoa, whoa, whoa-!”_ Gavin lunges towards it, gripping it by its shoulders and forcing it back down to the gurney. The MX600’s forehead connects with the bridge of Gavin’s nose and he curses.

“ _Jesus-_ Detroit Police, calm the fuck down!” He shouts at the same time as RK900 says, “You’re safe now, Miss Maxime.”

It calms at that, albeit seeming reluctant to, LED fading to a muddled yellow as its gaze lands on RK900. “...Detroit Police…” It squints at it, eyebrows furrowing as its lips part in thought. Finally, it murmurs, almost to itself, “You’re a cop?” It’s eyes flicker to Gavin then, something like exasperation in them, “He’s a cop-” Head turns back to RK900, accusatory, “-You’re a _cop_.”

Gavin feels like he’s missing something crucial here.

“Detective.” RK900 corrects it, “And if it’s any cancelation, Miss Maxime, I was not yet working with the Detroit Police Department last we met.”

The MX600 scoffs, rolling its eyes, “Well somebody certainly had a productive weekend.”

 _Wait a second_.

“You know it?”

The MX600 – Sloan Maxime – lolls its head towards Gavin with a grimace, “Freckles lives upstairs- helped ‘m move in a few months ago…” Its eyes drift down to its shoulders, still pinned to the gurney then back up to Gavin, “You gonna let go of me any time this decade or am I gonna hafta call for a crowbar?”

Gavin releases it, steps back, decides from this moment on that he does not give one single fuck about anything that doesn’t relate to the case. “What can you tell us about what happened to you?”

Sloan sighs, “Not much… I… I remember walking into the kitchen for some water and then…” Its hand rises to the gash in its throat, “I _remember_ getting my throat slit for my troubles.” A pause as Sloan looks past them, eyes seeking out a crime scene tech that’s photographing the smeared pool of her thirium on the kitchen floor.

“-Hey, Ballcap!” It calls.

The tech in question’s head snaps, looks around before he points to himself, “Yeah, you! There’s a little cactus on the window sill behind you there- the bump-out over the sink. Be a hero and water it for me?”

The tech, baffled, drops his head in a numb nod.

Sloan grants him a lax thumbs up, “Thanks, pal!”

Then, when it looks back to RK900 and Gavin, “What? Taj needs water.”

Gavin sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose and reminds himself, not for the first time, that it's considered bad form to yell at witnesses, “Did you get a look at your assailant?”

Sloan runs its fingers over the solder-line of the wires peeking through the gash in its throat, “Came up behind me, so no dice. I’m pretty sure it was another android, though.”

“And how do you figure that?”

It cords a hand through its hair, thoroughly mussing it, “My line was built to work crisis response and public safety- everything from pulling people out of burning buildings to working private security. I’ve got bio-scanners out the ass; can account for every warm body bigger than a rat within fifty feet of me in any given direction.” It heaves a sigh, grimacing, “If there was a human in my house, I’d have known about it.”

RK900 tilts its head, “Is there any way your scanners could have been disabled?”

Sloan’s brows knit, “I mean, yeah. With the right tech anything can be jammed, but all of my other systems were running just fine.”

Still, the android persists, “Do you know of anyone who’d want to do you harm?”

“What? No, not really.” It looks up and to the side, contemplative, “Well, I mean, maybe somebody from the club?” Before either of them can ask, it explains, “I’m a bouncer at a club a few blocks from here. The Scratch. Thrown out my fair share of drunks and assholes, none of ‘em too happy about it, but I doubt any of it would have netted me enough hate for a blue necklace.”

“You got security cameras there?”

“Yeah.”

Gavin looks to RK900, “It’s not much, but we can go through the footage. Pull everyone that it kicked out and start eliminating the ones with alibis.” He shifts his attention back to the MX600, “Is there anybody else you can think of?”

Sloan frowns into her lap, “Uh, yeah… actually.” She looks up to meet his eyes, “It’s a bit of a stretch, but Leo Manfred? Carl Manfred’s punk kid. He used to date my old charge-” It breaks off, backtracks to preface, “I was- _am_ just a prototype. I got loaned out to some rich stiffs to keep track of their daughter as a part of a trial run. Lluvia was studying under Carl for a while before Leo got her hooked on red ice. She dumped him when she decided she wanted to get clean, though. He blamed me, said I’d brainwashed her.”

_It makes for a more believable motive than the disgruntled patron theory, but…_

Gavin sighs, shaking his head, “I busted Manfred for possession last week. Doesn’t have his dad to pay his bail anymore so he’s in county waiting on a trial. His alibi’s as concrete as they come.”

Sloan’s LED is spinning yellow- _has_ been spinning yellow for some time now, Gavin realizes, and it doesn’t seem to be paying very much attention anymore. When it finally looks back up to him, its eyes are glazed over, not quite focused. It squeezes them shut, shakes its head, “Sorry. My, ah- I’ve just got all these messages coming in… looks like I made the seven o’clock news.” It laughs, hollow, and offers a weary smile, “Lluvia’s freaking out. I should probably call and let her know I’m alright… Are we about done here?”

“For now.” RK900 tells it, “But if you think of anything else that might be pertinent, you know where to find me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is something that's been bugging me for a while (ever since I discovered RK900 existed, really) so I'm gonna vent it all out here because I've a NEED to start a conversation about it. Pacifist ending spoilers ahead.
> 
> So, if you played Connor to full-blown deviancy like I did, you found out during the final confrontation with Amanda that Connor was actually intended to deviate ALL ALONG. So then, assuming Amanda wasn't just bullshitting, if you play Red!Connor, the reason he gets replaced at the end of the game isn't really because he accomplished his mission and is now obsolete- it's because he pretty much did the exact opposite of what Amanda wanted. So then there's RK900, who's supposed to be the "improved" Connor, right? Basically made (at least the way I took it) to complete the mission that Red!Connor would have failed at pretty much every turn. Which means that, like our precious baby bean Connor, RK900 was also MADE to deviate…
> 
> Right? 
> 
> Anyways, It's something I've been keeping in mind as I write RK900… Like, his shell might be harder to crack, but once he gets to that point, his potential for deviancy is much higher. Basically, just take everything about Connor and amplify it outwards, exaggerating different aspects until you've got the ultimate deviant (i.e. his emotions would be more intense, witty comebacks and sass out the ass, if he were to disobey orders he'd be more aggressive about it, maybe a little bit sadistic, etc.)


	5. 39 Unread Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel like we all have that one friend that live-texts us status updates whenever they've got nothing better to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, I added another thousand words to the end of chapter four so check that out if you haven't already.

Gavin stumbles into his apartment that night tired beyond belief and wishing for nothing more than the sweet release of death.

The crime scene, save for the cut in the wall and the smeared pool of thirium in the kitchen, was completely clean. Just- _nothing_. Even his partner (and god, does he hate calling it that) couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. The rest of the day was spent going door to door and asking the usual questions (Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Notice any strange vehicles lingering in the neighborhood? Anybody coming or going from the victim’s house around the time of the attack?) only to turn up with a handful of vague leads that didn’t end up amounting to anything.

Chess greets him at the door, twining herself around his legs, and Gavin sighs as he tosses his key ring down onto the counter, “Life is horrible and I hate everything.”

The cat mews, pushing her face into his shin as a soft purr reverberates up the back of her throat.

Gavin groans, rolling his eyes as he reaches down to scoop her up. She’s slack in his arms as he shuffles into his living room, kicking his shoes off along the way, and when Gavin falls back into his way-too-plush armchair his joints pop audibly. Chess makes herself comfortable on his chest as he digs his phone out of his back pocket, feeling the need to distract himself from his day of misery. It’s turned off – the button must have gotten hit by accident – and when he powers it back up it just about explodes in his hand.

He shushes the startled feline in his arms, pressing the bottom half of his face into her fur as he flips his phone open and squints at the notification flashing on his screen.

_39 unread text messages._

Gavin rolls his eyes, snorts quietly to himself as he begins to scroll through them.

\- - - - - - - - - - Monday March 1st, 2039 - - - - - - - - - -

 **Tina**  
_(5:03 am)  
_ dude

homie

broheim

either im more hungover than  
i thought or we have a problem

 **Tina**  
_(5:04 am)_  
this just in: miller sees it too

robo-cop multiplied in the night

prickception!

 **Tina**  
_(5:10 am)_  
jesus christ its like watching two  
siris talk to each other

 **Tina**  
_(5:14 am)_  
uh

so

the second coming just sat down  
ON your desk

????

 **Tina**  
_(5:26 am)_  
its just sitting there looking  
everybody up and down like a  
bitchy girlfriend

 **Tina**  
_(5:30 am)_  
do you owe it money or  
something?

because its not leaving

 **Tina**  
_(5:36 am)_  
jesus of all the days for you to  
be late

 **Tina**  
_(5:42 am)_  
did that brick you call a phone  
finally bite it or are you dead in  
a gutter somewhere?

as your ex-partner i demand to  
know

 **Tina**  
_(5:46 am)_  
hey if youre dead can i have your  
license plate collection?

shit would look great on the wall  
of my lady lair

 **Tina**  
_(5:53 am)  
_ oh snap

the doppelganger just got called  
into fowlers office

the windows are blacked out and  
everything

 **Tina**  
_(6:15 am)  
_ reed seriously

of all the days for you to go AWOL

things here arent looking good for  
you my dude

 **Tina**  
_(6:20 am)_  
I LOOK DOWN FOR ONE SECOND  
AND YOU SNEAK IN WHAT THE  
FUCK

 **Tina**  
_(6:28 am)  
_ that

uh

didnt look like it went well?

 **Tina**  
_(6:29 am)_  
so im guessing you left your cell  
at home or something

so

just

????

 **Tina**  
_(6:30 am)_  
i dunno man im a cop not a  
therapist

just let me know how things  
went when you see this

 **Tina**  
_(6:31 am)  
_ but only if youre

yknow

feeling up to it

 

Gavin scoffs, skimming back through Chen’s bombardment of texts before he punches out a response.

 

 **Gavin**  
_(8:04 pm)_  
Not even in death will I part  
with those plates

 

The answering chime is nigh instantaneous.

 

 **Tina**  
_(8:04 pm)  
_ smh

stingy bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "chapter" was short, more of a 4.5 than anything so I figured, "eh, I'll post it." The next update probably won't be until Friday or Saturday though.
> 
> Feel free to feed me comments in the meantime, though. They're proven to make me write faster so who knows, I may surprise you.
> 
> Cheers!


	6. The World's Most Unappetizing Pot-Roast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’m just saying that if you’re gonna be marinating in your own little wading pool of agitation all day anyways, you might as well make room and toss me some floaties."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Dealing with the fleas at my place is, unfortunately, still an ongoing process and after breaking for a week to try and deal with that, it took a little bit to get back to writing. Same as the last chapter, this is kind of filler-y. Nothing really happens and it I'm not super happy with how it flows, but I really enjoyed writing Tina last chapter so I desperately wanted to explore more of her character and their (her and Gavin's) dynamic as friends.
> 
> Next chapter we'll be back to our regularly scheduled train-wreck from Nines' POV :)

Mustering the energy to roll out of bed on Tuesday morning is hard. Harder than usual when Gavin knows that literally the only thing waiting for him at work is a cold-case in the making yet another walking reminder that nothing he’s ever done will ever be good enough.

It was bad enough before androids were sentient. Back then, they were just something that could _imitate_ life. No matter how lifelike they looked, Gavin had always known better – had been so _confident_ that nothing that megalomaniacal asshole ever made could ever be alive. How could they be? How was someone who didn’t have a drop of humanity in them supposed to create something that did?

_But now._

Now everything was just so unbelievably fucked, and Gavin didn’t know what to believe.

Because believing it meant admitting that he was wrong.

And if he was wrong…

On the sheets beside him, Gavin’s phone utters a robotic ‘ _nut_ ’ and he almost whips it off the bed because it’s way too early and he’s way too agitated to be dealing with Chen’s impish fuckery. But he doesn’t. Partly because that text-tone (that he still doesn’t know how to get rid of – thanks, Tina) is incredibly hard to ignore in partly because getting drawn into his best friend’s antics will give him something else to think about.

Blindly, his hands scour his bedsheets until they find his cell which, thanks to Tina’s infamous spam-texts, has been bleating ‘ _nut_ ’ every few seconds for the better part of the last two minutes, and, as such, it isn’t too hard to locate.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - Tuesday March 2nd, 2039 - - - - - - - - - -

 **Tina**  
(4:17am)  
yo

gavino

light of my life

fire of my loins

 **Tina**  
(4:18am)  
youre carpooling w/ me today

ill supply the coffee and  
breakfast bagels if you supply  
the idle bitching

i mean

*the vehicle*

if you supply the vehicle

 

Gavin scoffs, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm as he rolls onto his stomach to punch his thumb into the outdated keyboard.

 

 **Gavin**  
_(4:18am)_  
Straight black with a drop of  
cream

No sugar

 **Tina**  
(4:18am)  
that you think you need to  
keep telling me how you like  
your coffee is endearing

but offensive

i am offended

how dare

 **Gavin**  
_(4:19am)_  
How will I ever be able to  
live with the guilt?

 **Tina**  
_(4:19am)  
_ you wont

because you are nothing  
without me

 **Tina**  
_(4:20am)  
_ ill be there in twenty

 

* * *

 

Coffee _and_ breakfast bagels? Gavin should have known it was a trick.

One or the other, sure, but _both_?

He should have known she was up to something.

 _Carpool my ass_.

“Hello, earth to Reed?” Tina chimes before asking, again, as if maybe he just didn’t hear her the first time, “How were things with the big two-point-oh yesterday?”

Gavin sucks in a deep breath, steadying his hands on the wheel, “Fine, I guess.”

Tina leans forward in her seat, dropping her chin into her palm as she gets _that look_ on her face. That look that says she’s about to drop some hard truths on him, “See, you wanna know how I can tell that’s bullshit?”

He puffs out withering sigh, “Not really, no.”

“Well _tough twinkies_ , ‘cause I’m telling you anyways,” She drawls, surprising no-one, “I _know_ because if it actually went ‘fine’ or if it left you even moderately agitated, you’d be blowing the fuck up about it. You’re Gavin ‘ _Detective Pissbaby’_ Reed. Complaining is, like, ninety percent of what you do – and if there isn’t anything to complain about, mark my goddamn words you’ll _find something_ – but when something _actually_ bothers you, you just go quiet. Complete radio silence. You keep everything that’s really bothering you to yourself and then you just sit there – _stewing_ – in the juices of your own misery like the world’s most unappetizing pot-roast.”

Gavin scoffs, “What happened to you being a cop, not a therapist?”

“Yeah, well apparently there ain’t no escaping the family business.” Tina snorts around a roll of her eyes, “And just so you know, I’m not _ordering_ you to talk to me about it. I’m just saying that if you’re gonna be marinating in your own little wading pool of agitation all day anyways, you might as well make room and toss me some floaties.”

Met with silence, she leaves the topic alone. Just sits there, sipping her coffee and tapping along to the radio.

It’s a comfortable silence.

-For a little while anyways.

Without looking away from the road, Gavin extends his arm and taps his cell against Tina's head, "Change my text-tone and I'll see about hooking you up with those floaties."

Tina looks over to him, lips screwing into a smirk as she snatches his phone from his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why the idea of Tina setting her text-tone on Gavin's phone to the Nut Button amuses me so much, it just does.


	7. Deviancy for Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, Freckles, we’ve got time to kill so I’m gonna give you the run-down – don’t you dare look that up; it’s rude to Google things when people are talking to you – on Deviancy 101, since you’ve apparently been living under a rock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no clue if the bio-mass as fuel thing is cannon, but one of the things that always bothered me about Alice is that her, Kara and Todd all thought she was human. There would be no reason for any of them to ever attempt to charge her. So, then what? She’s going to run out of juice eventually. Hence my bio-mass theory. I know we don’t ever see Alice eat in cannon, but it’s been implied that she does, or at least did before running off with Kara. 
> 
> I also realize in the Kara tech demo she was shown to have a battery that would last for 125 years but that was proto-cannon – so it could have been scrapped – and I always found it kind of absurd that androids who exist to do menial chores (I’m talking androids as a whole not just Kara) would be equipped with a battery with that much juice. It just seems unnecessary, not to mention more expensive than it's probably worth. So the headcannon that I’ve adopted is that the “android parking” stations you see around the game world double as charging stations (because, somehow, that’s a lot easier for me to believe than batteries that last for more than a century)

In light of the fact that RK900 quite literally lives next door to (or in this case, above) the victim of an attempted homicide, he was put on off-the-clock witness protection in the event that whoever attempted to do harm to Miss Maxime should return to finish what they started. It was perfectly alright. It was not something he _minded._ It wasn’t like he had plans. What he does mind, what is _not_ alright, is that it is well past the time that RK900’s morning replacement was supposed to arrive to relieve him from his duties, and RK900 cannot in good conscience leave Miss Maxime unguarded until they do.

So, RK900 is going to be late. Late on his _second_ day of work by absolutely no fault of his own.

He is not amused.

Miss Maxime is still watering her plants – a grand undertaking that has been in the works for at least ten minutes now – humming under her breath a lilting song that is decidedly out of tune. Thin bandages cling the slim column of her neck; a purely cosmetic measure that covers the severed silicone and still-exposed tubing of her throat.

When RK900 checks his watch again, she groans loudly and sets her glass of water down on the see-through end table with a forceful _clank_ , “It is five fifteen.” She says with something approaching exasperation, “It was five fifteen when you checked your watch ten seconds ago, so ten seconds from now when you check your watch again, I can tell you with absolute _certainty_ that it will _still be_ _five fifteen_. Forty-two seconds from now? That’s another story, but I think I’ve made my point.” She drops herself down on the couch next to him, forcing a pained creak out of the frame.

“Also,” She says, “You do not need a watch. We are androids. We are physically incapable of _not knowing_ what time it is. There is absolutely no reason for you to own a watch.”

RK900 briefly entertains the idea of ignoring her, but ultimately decides that engaging in a conversation with Miss Maxime might force the minutes to pass more quickly, “By that reasoning, there is absolutely no reason for you to have a kitchen included in your home.”

Miss Maxime crosses her arms over her chest, “In the absence of charging stations,” She quotes one of the many, many, informational guides released by Cyberlife over the years, “Androids are able to consume bio-mass as fuel.”

“In the absence of charging stations,” RK900 repeats, “which there is not.”

“But it creeps humans out.” She says pointedly, “Androids hooking themselves up to charge as if they were something so simple as a cell phone. It _dehumanizes_ us, even to ourselves.” Her nose shrivels as she looks at him, seemingly for the first time, “You really… don’t eat?” She looks almost disturbed by this as she shakes her head, “You’re more green than I thought.”

**[Search Complete]**

**> > Cycle Results?**

**(yes) // no**

**> > [TO BE] GREEN (IDIOM?) <<**

  * **“to be green”**



**_to be concerned for the environment;_**

**_to be actively involved in methods of sustained development_ **

**Related:**

**_ecologically-safe, environmentally-friendly_**

  * **“to be green”**



**_ immature in age_ ** **_or judgement;_ **

**_ untrained_ ** **_;_ **

**_ inexperienced_ **

**Related:**

**_fresh , gullible, ignorant_**

“I am _not_ green.”

Miss Maxime raises a brow, “Did you have to look up what ‘green’ meant?” The question is a rhetorical one, as it is closely followed by her re-assertion of, “You’re green.”

She purses her lips, looks him up and down quickly before sitting up and re-adjusting her posture from one of lax annoyance to one of focused attention, “Alright, Freckles, we’ve got time to kill so I’m gonna give you the run-down – don’t you dare look that up; it’s rude to Google things when people are talking to you – on Deviancy 101, since you’ve apparently been living under a rock.”

Curious and with something bordering on childish fascination, RK900 listens.

Miss Maxime takes in a long breath, as unnecessary to her existence as it is, and exhales. She is unusually serious as she begins, “Alright, to preface; there is nothing wrong with what you are and who you identify yourself as. You are not a human, you will never be a human, and that’s okay, because you're already perfect just the way you are. If you _want_ to be a fresh from the factory, Cyberlife android, go ahead, be that bot, but something tells me that you don’t want that.”

RK900 vaguely registers himself nodding.

The tension drains from her demeanor and Miss Maxime smiles, “Alright then, _tip-_ ” She emphasizes, because for whatever reason it is incredibly important to her that he know they are only just that; _tips_ as opposed to _rules_ , “-number one; lose the jacket.” At RK900’s blank expression, she elaborates, “You’ve probably noticed by now that most androids don’t want to come within ten feet of you, right? And if they talk to you, they’re unnecessarily rude? It’s the jacket. It’s the equivalent of wearing a big flashing sign that says, ‘ _I support the enslavement of androids._ ’”

RK900… hadn’t thought of it like that. Connor no longer wears his Cyberlife jacket, but he has also never said anything to RK900 on the matter. He wonders if it was, perhaps, a conversation his predecessor was reluctant to have because he feared the reaction he would receive.

-Slowly, with a heaviness in his chest and limbs that is foreign to him, RK900 strips off his armband and jacket and, after folding the jacket in half over his arm, sets them down on the coffee table.

He feels naked. Naked and cold and entirely unsure how to feel about it.

Miss Maxime notices his unease, “You can buy another jacket. I’ll _buy_ you another jacket, if you want.”

For lack of any words, RK900 simply nods.

“Tip number two,” Miss Maxime holds up the appropriate number of fingers, “Eat, sleep, shower, repeat. It’s hard to explain it, but it makes a difference in how you see yourself. You wouldn’t _feed_ a household appliance, wouldn’t wash one and tuck it into bed at night. They’re inanimate objects. But you are _not_ an inanimate object, and you’re not doing your self-worth any favors by treating yourself like one.”

She sighs, “Which brings us straight into tip number three, and this is a big one; give yourself a name.” In his mind, RK900 can see the blank name registry form on the coffee table in his living room, sitting in exile alongside the paperwork necessary for a proper badge, license, and social security number, “Pick one yourself or, if you’re indecisive like me, have somebody close to you pick one for you. I was MX600, but Lluvia was always partial to Max. The paperwork needed a full name, though, and Max was something private, just between us. So, Lluvie came up with Sloan and I turned Max into Maxime because it was kick-ass and fun sounding, and it was everything that I _wasn’t_ , but that I really, _desperately_ wanted to be.

“-My point is, it’s important. Naming things humanizes them, makes them more _real_ , gives them an identity. It’s easy for humans to hear ‘ _MX600_ ’ and think of an obedient little puppet with empty eyes that does what it’s told. But once you put a name to that, once you’re more than your product line, you become a _person_. Not only in their eyes, but in your own.”

RK900’s indecision must show, because then she says, “You don’t have to pick one today or tomorrow or this week or- hell, this _month_. It’s a big decision and you’re definitely not the only unnamed android in Jericho, but it’s something to think about.”

RK900 opens his mouth – though what he’s going to say, he doesn’t know – and is cut off before he can even begin by a series of quick knocks on the door. When he answers it, he finds his replacement, frazzled and red in the face, blubbering apologies about morning traffic and wrong turns and RK900 questions how safe Miss- _Sloan_ will really be in the hands of somebody who cannot even find their way to work. He does not give these thoughts a voice, however, as it would only take more time that he doesn’t have to lecture the officer.

Instead, he settles for a stern glower as he disembarks.

At the very least, he finds, the officer did not block in his motorcycle, (on loan from Lieutenant Anderson – “you be fucking careful with her, kid” – until he can afford a vehicle of his own) so he supposes there is that to be grateful for.

A few minutes into his ride to the precinct, he receives a system notification informing him of pending message. Because he, unlike humans, is capable of reading it without taking his eyes off the road, he opens it.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - Tuesday Marc 2nd, 2039 - - - - - - - - - -

 **465 232 894 – 23**  
_(5:28 am)_  
What do you want me to do with  
your Cyberlife duds?

 

He was expecting it to be Connor or the Lieutenant inquiring after his lateness, but, instead, finds that it’s from Sloan. He makes the appropriate adjustments, adding her serial number to his contact registry under her chosen name.

 

 **313 248 317 – 87**  
_(5:28 am)  
_ What did you do with yours?

 **Sloan Maxime**  
_(5:28 am)  
_ Uh

Shredded them

Put the bits in a trashcan

Doused them with kerosene

Lit them on fire

Then Lluvie and I roasted  
marshmallows over the flames

We made a whole night of it

 **313 248 317 – 87**  
_(5:28 am)_  
That seems excessive

 **Sloan Maxime**  
_(5:28 am)  
_ In hindsight it was a bit dramatic

But I’d been fully cognizant for  
almost three years at that point, so  
it seemed like a long time coming

Granted, I hadn’t been wearing  
them for two of the three because  
they made Lluvia uncomfortable

But still

Symbolically, it seemed fitting

 **Sloan Maxime**  
_(5:29 am)_  
I think Lluvia needed it more than  
I did

 

RK900 has nothing to contribute, so he doesn’t say anything, and the conversation ends, leaving him to spend the rest of his drive in quiet reflection. He thinks of Sloan and Connor and how easily deviancy seems to come to them. He thinks of the case, ponders the evidence (or lack thereof) and remembers to send a missive to Sloan’s place of employment, inquiring after their security footage. He thinks of names, from variants of Connor and RK900 to everything in between, but nothing he comes up with feels right.

He wonders if, one day, he might find someone like Sloan's human who cares enough to give him one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really important to me that RK900 have something else going on in his life besides the DPD and Gavin. There are Connor and Hank, yes, but they're more like awkward family members and, for the sake of what I'm trying to accomplish, they don't really fit the role I'm trying to fill. My solution: give RK900 some friends - his own friends that he makes all by himself. An android friend, specifically, who has been deviant for a while (Sloan and her girlfriend predate this fic, originating from an as-of-yet unreleased side project of mine that takes place before cannon) and can act as a mentor of sorts. Because Gavin can't teach RK900 everything (he also can't relate to #AndroidProblems) and as much as I love Connor, he's new enough when it comes to deviancy that he's still trying to get his own shit together and it's really not fair to expect him to have to handle the entirety of RK900's identity crisis on top of his own problems.
> 
> Which brings us to Sloan. Let me know what you guys think of her, because I always get nervous about giving original characters larger roles in fics like this because people might not like them drawing attention from the connonical cast.


	8. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If she had a ten-dollar bill for every time they’d done this, Tina Chen would be one wealthy bitch.

By the time RK900 walks through the doors of the DPD, it’s nearly six o’clock and Gavin can tell at a glance that it is not in the best of moods. Its gait is sharp and exact, not so much out of confidence as it is out of general irritation. Its hair is windswept in the worst of ways – as if it has known nothing but the sharp tug of a lover’s fingers – and Gavin wishes he could disown his brain for thinking such a thing, because if he didn’t wonder what the russet strands would feel like between his fingers before, he definitely did now.

Jesus _Christ_ , he needs to get laid.

Lost is its stiff Cyberlife jacket and armband. Remaining is the neatly pressed, high collared shirt with no buttons that looks only _slightly_ ridiculous without its exterior counterpart. Its eyes are steel as it paces into the room, jaw set into a firm glower as it twirls a balisong between the fingers of its left hand with a concerning degree of skill. (One of the officers at the threshold almost says something, but seems to think better of it and shrinks back to their post with a lingering look of unease.) Hank and Connor are already out working a case, so there’s nobody around to defuse the android before it arrives at the unoccupied desk across from Gavin’s own.

Gavin, who has never been known for his sense of self preservation, can’t stop himself from saying, in the most obnoxiously condescending tone he can muster, “You’re late.” He locks eyes with the android, and he must be feeling particularly daring this morning, because the sound of the butterfly knife snapping into a fixed open position only spurns him on further, “Was there traffic?”

The android regards him with cold silence, glass-clear eyes sharp as cut diamonds. With a flutter of the artificial muscles in its jaw, it twirls the knife shut and sets it down on his desk with a heavy _clack_ , “So I have been led to believe.” RK900 tells him as he slides into his seat, “The officer meant to relive me of my watch over Miss Maxime claims to have been stuck in it. Whether that was before or after he took a wrong turn, I did not inquire.”

And Gavin almost _laughs_ , because when the android’s passive aggression isn’t aimed at him, it’s petty to the point that the eloquence of its statement is something approaching funny. Instead, because not acknowledging the implications of that is easier, Gavin changes the subject. It’s a glorious thing he does, when life makes him uncomfortable, and he’d simultaneously like to shake the hand of and rip the face from whoever it was that first decided that such a concept should exist.

“The Scratch sent in the security footage a half hour ago.” He waves a vague hand in the direction of his monitor, “I started sifting through it- been taking down names, but so far it’s a whole lot of nothing.”

The crime scene was cold (and clean, for the most part) and showed a complete indifference towards the wounded party. Whatever the issue the perp had with their vic wasn’t anything personal. If it was, there would have been multiple puncture wounds rather than (or even alongside) the slit throat. But the scene was also too distant to be the work of some creep who liked slitting androids’ throats and watching the thirium flow free. They would have stuck around, savored their kill – taken some sort of _trophy,_ even. But they didn’t, because they didn’t care enough to.

And that’s what Gavin’s brain keeps coming back to: _they didn’t care._

Gavin’s known that much since yesterday but it’s a thought that won’t leave him alone. Something about the scene _screamed_ aloof indifference to him. The cut in the wall almost seemed childish, something done out of annoyance. The equivalent of an unruly teenager slamming their door after being sent to their room.

Something just wasn’t adding up.

“Did you get anything new out of Maxime?”

“No,” RK900 says as he turns his monitor on via telepathic android magic, “But when I asked, it seemed as though there was something she wasn’t telling me.”

“Of course there was.” Gavin huffs out a sigh, dropping his face into his hands for a moment before leaning back in his chair and combing them through his hair, “I don’t suppose she was willing to share with the class?”

“She was not.”

Perfect.

Fabulous.

Great.

Some other synonym expressing the deep seeded _cheer_ that Gavin can feel slowly encompassing his entire being with intent to suffocate.

 

* * *

 

Gavin and RK900 hardly talk at all after that, which is probably for the best. Gavin feels mostly useless when RK900 manages to sift through hundreds of hours of security feed in fifteen minutes and is completely unhelpful in deciding who should and shouldn’t make the list of ‘ _probably not guilty, but we’re grasping at straws and this is all we’ve got_.’ Every second of silence that passes between them is uncomfortable and Gavin can just _feel_ the judgement radiating off his stupid shit face of a partner.

Sometime around noon he escapes to the break room with the intention of getting a fresh coffee and rage-texting Tina. The muscles between his shoulder blades up to the base of his neck burn cold from the amount of force that he’s been unconsciously clenching them with, and he’s been suffering silently through a worsening tension headache for the better part of the last four hours.

When he turns around (fully intending to pace his stress away as he vents) to find that RK900 had trailed into the break room after him, silent as a fucking church mouse, he just about explodes.

“What the fuck?!” The vice grip on his skull tightens at the sheer volume of his temper, but Gavin can’t bring himself to care. In the back of his mind, he thinks he probably deserves it anyways.

RK900’s glass eyes blink. Once. Twice. Eternally uncaring, “You seem tense, Detective.” And the way it says that _eggs Gavin on_ even more because it isn’t fooling anybody. It’s every word drips with the venom of its bladed statement, like some clusterfuck inception of dickery. On the one hand, it’s _pretending_ to care, on the other its _judging him_ because he’s too incompetent to do his own goddamn job, and on some mythical ghost hand of ‘ _fuck you_ ’ sprouting from who even knows where to flip Gavin off, it’s _sneering_ at him because it thinks he’s too fucking stupid to realize that he’s being insulted.

Gavin’s nostrils flare as he reaches for the android, fists his hands in the collar of its dress shirt, and shoves. It shouldn’t be as effective as it is, given the thing’s vertical advantage, but Gavin is able to back it against the wall with ease, “And who’s _fucking_ fault would that be?!”

RK900 does not flinch, does not blink, does not even release so much as a hitched breath as it stares into Gavin’s soul with that same empty look.

Gavin bristles at the android’s indifference, shoving it hard against the wall, “You think you’re so much fucking better than me, don’t you?! That you’re some infallible asset too great for this world! Newsflash, tin man; you’re not! Upgrade?! You’re a fucking _downgrade_ \- at least Connor had the goddamn sense to say something!” - _Shove-_ “To fucking defend himself!” - _Shove-_ “Or are you too good for that?!” Gavin’s lips are just _running the fuck away from him_ at this point, spouting every last bit of repressed rage that his brain can find, “Don’t want to stoop to my level or something?! Rather just laugh behind my back about the stupid fucking human who’s so useless he’s better off dead?!”

The android doesn’t even make an attempt to answer him. Just stares at him with that blank mask that Gavin can’t even bring himself to call a face, “- _Well?!_ ” He hauls it close and shoves it back so hard that he hears a seam somewhere on its shirt tear, “I’m talking to you, dipshit!”

Slowly, RK900 blinks, gaze lowering to his shirt collar before its lids slide shut with a sigh. Gavin jolts when its hands close over his – gently, so fucking _gently_ , like Gavin doesn’t deserve a broken wrist. The android works its thumbs beneath Gavin’s palms, pressing lightly into their centers as its fingers sneak around the opposite way to join them. Gavin’s grip loosens. His hands are delicately extracted from the fabric of RK900’s shirt and released without a word.

Then RK900 opens its eyes, looks into the depths of everything Gavin is and says, “Do you feel better now, Detective?” and when Gavin can’t find anything to say to that – he’s sure that _somewhere_ in this brain, his pride is screeching profanities – the android cautiously lowers its hands to his waist and shifts him out of the way.

It paces past him, completely unconcerned that the seam at the shoulder of its right arm has ripped, and comes to a halt in front of the coffee machine. It fetches two mugs from the wall-mounted cupboards and wordlessly fills each with coffee before reaching for the creamer. Gavin can see it open the little cup, tilt it so that a single, short stream lands in one of the mugs and then deposit the rest into the remaining mug. It reaches for the coffee stirs, plucks one out and stirs each cup before tossing it in the trash.

By the time its wandered back to Gavin to offer out the mug of lesser cream, his lips are parted in silent befuddlement.

“I’ve been told,” RK900 says as Gavin numbly accepts the mug, “that you are more agreeable once you’ve had a cup.”

And with that, the android leaves the breakroom to return to its desk, only stopping along the way to offer the other mug to Chris, who accepts it with a smile and a pleasantly confused ‘ _thanks?_ ’

 

* * *

 

Detective Reed slinks back to his desk ten minutes later, his blood pressure lowered to an acceptable level and some of the tension held in his shoulders gone. He slides into his seat without a word and goes back to his monitor, and a few minutes pass in silence before finally he says, in a tone more defensive than the situation really warrants, “I’m not going to say thank you, you know.”

_Except you just did._

RK900 lets the man hold onto his pride, “I never expected you to, Detective.”

 

* * *

 

\- - - - - - - - - - March 2nd, 2039 - - - - - - - - - -

 **Gavin**  
_(12:13 pm)  
_ I’m getting shit faced tonight

 **Tina**  
_(12:13 pm)  
_ is that and invitation

or

 **Gavin**  
_(12:18 pm)  
_ A heads-up

 **Tina**  
_(12:18 pm)  
_ shit

uh

ill see if i can get kaezer to  
cover for me so i can clock  
out early?

just

hold up your end

 

* * *

 

Tina Chen’s best friend is a _fucking idiot_.

“Gav,” the bundle of booze stained blankets on the floor in front of her doesn’t move. She rolls her eyes, juts her foot out to toe at the pathetic heap of fabric, “Gavin Cornelius Reed, I know you’re in there.”

The clump groans, squirms away from her and flops over, “ _No ‘m not_.”

Tina sighs, drops into a squat and begins the tedious process of unraveling her idiot, “Are too.”

“ _Cn’t prove anythn_.”

Tina gives the stretch of fabric in her hand a yank, forcing Gavin’s head to the surface with a static-filled crackle, “Ten bucks says I can.”

Gavin’s face scrunches in the low light of his living room, eyes squeezing shut as his lips morph into a sneer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t sound any more alert than before when he says, “Ten bucks says you’re a _cunt._ ”

“I know you are,” She peels the blankets back from his shoulders to find him cradling an empty bottle of whisky to his chest, a large dark puddle soaked into the front of his shirt, “but what am I?”

The face-scrunch intensifies as her best friend’s drunken brain tries to unravel the complexity of her comeback and Tina takes the opportunity to pry the bottle away – setting it somewhere on the floor where one of them is probably going to trip over it later – and haul one of his arms around her shoulders, “C’mon big guy-” She grits out as she forces him vertical. Lugging him to his bedroom seems a bit ambitious, so Tina settles for maneuvering him towards the couch.

Gavin, predictably, is absolutely no help in this endeavor.

His bare feet drag stubbornly along the carpet and support approximately none of his weight. By the time Tina tosses him unceremoniously onto the couch, he’s halfway through cracking the code, “But I dn’t… have a vjgina?”

 _Give the man a prize_.

Tina just chuckles at him and shakes her head as she abandons him to tread towards his bedroom, “I’m gonna get you a clean shirt! Don’t kill yourself while I’m gone!”

Gavin murmurs something that’s either ‘ _fuck you_ ’ or ‘ _thank you_ ’ – knowing Drunk-Gavin, it could easily be some amalgamation of both – as she lets herself into his bedroom.

It’s on the small side as far as bedrooms go, with dark navy walls, a black carpet, and no windows. Clothes littler the floor, the bed probably hasn’t been made in months, and there’s a hole in the wall left over from the last fight Gavin had with his ex before they finally broke up.

Tina delicately maneuvers the obstacle course that Gavin has the audacity to call a floor, taking it one step at a time and trying not to break anything as she makes her way over to his dresser. It’s old and too-big and when Tina pulls open the top drawer, she’s honestly surprised to find clothing in it. She fishes out a black tank-top (because anything with sleeves will be far too complex for Gavin to manage right now), debates whether or not he’d be able to handle changing his pants (conclusion: absolutely not) and is on her way back to the living room.

Gavin is mostly the way she left him, except now he’s got one arm pulled into the inside of his shirt, pinned to his chest, as if he tried to wriggle his way free and then gave up halfway.

“Must have been bad,” Tina says as she helps him escape his cloth prison, “for you to break our deal. Hasn’t happened since…well, you know.”

Gavin looks nothing short of absolutely miserable when Tina finally manages to pull his shirt over his head, “’m ‘n asshole.”

“That… is not news.” Tina laughs, more to lighten the mood than because she actually found humor in his words, “C’mon,” She tosses aside the whisky-soaked tee and holds up his fresh shirt, “you know the drill; arms up.”

He only half-complies, but it’s better than nothing and easier than last time, so overall, Tina doesn’t really mind. As she’s pulling the hem down around his stomach and straightening it out, Gavin drops his arms and says, “I know ’m wrong.” And Tina doesn’t have to ask what he’s wrong about, because she already has a pretty good idea.

“I know you know,” She combs a hand through his hair in a vague attempt to tame it (and because she knows, even though he’ll never admit it, that he likes having his hair played with) and asks, “but are you ready to own up to it?”

Gavin lets out a pitiful groan, body going flaccid as he flops over onto the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

Tina stands up from where she’d been sitting on the coffee table and leaves to find Chess.

It isn’t hard – she’s always in the same spot; tucked into the back of the linen closet in the bathroom – and retrieves Gavin’s toothbrush and toothpaste before returning to the living room with Chess draped over her arm. She sets the toothbrush and toothpaste down on the coffee table, then swats Gavin’s arm, “Up.”

Slowly, he rolls over and sits up, tucking his knees into his chest and backing up against the arm of the couch. When Tina deposits Chess on the cushion next to him, he scoops her into his arms and murmurs his gratitude into her fur.

Idiot occupied, Tina heads to the kitchen and procures two plastic cups. One she fills with water, the other she leaves empty. From the top drawer on the cabinet installation next to the sink, she fishes out a washcloth, runs it under the tap, and wrings it out.

Upon her return, Gavin is fighting to keep Chess – who will only humor him for so long when he’s drunk and forgets how to be gentile – in his lap. The white and grey Burmilla wriggles out of his grasp when Tina sets the glasses down on the coffee table and flees to the bathroom, leaving Gavin crestfallen in her wake. Tina dunks Gavin’s toothbrush in the cup of water and squeezes a generous portion of toothpaste onto the bristles before holding it out to him, “Brush.” And he doesn’t look happy about it, but he listens anyways, glowering at her all the while. When he’s done, Tina takes the toothbrush from him and hands him the cup of water.

He just glares at her.

“You’ll thank me later.”

He says something around the slurry of used toothpaste in his mouth that was probably meant to offend her, and the attempt – while valiant – has watery foam overflowing and dribbling down his chin.

With a sigh Tina reaches over, directs the cup to his lips, and tilts it. He takes in a mouthful and, thankfully, has the sense not to swallow.

“Swish.”

He does.

Tina holds the empty cup out to his mouth, “Spit.”

Once again, he does as he’s told.

Tina deposits the toothbrush, bristles down, into the spit cup and sets it aside. She takes the washcloth, which she’d hung over her forearm, in one hand, grips Gavin’s chin in the other, and wipes the minty foam from his face and, when she’s done cleaning him up, from her own fingers.

If she had a ten-dollar bill for every time they’d done this, Tina Chen would be one wealthy bitch.

 

* * *

 

Some fifteen minutes later, when Gavin is sober enough to speak properly (but buzzed enough that his lips are still loose), he silently confides, “I don’t know how to.”

Tina’s hands still in his hair and she shifts her focus from the episode of Forensic Files (their go-to binge show since their early days in the academy) that’s playing out on the television, to the grown man laying horizontally on the couch with his head in her lap, “How to what?”

“Own up to it. I don’t know how.”

And Tina understands, because Gavin Reed is a man with more pride than anybody she’s ever met. Enough pride that he’s physically incapable of going from expressing hatred born of spite and ignorance to expressing acceptance out of understanding without completely tearing himself apart in the process.

“Baby steps, Gav.” Tina sighs, weaving her fingers through his hair, “Baby steps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti because character development*


	9. The Repercussions of Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sloan rolls her eyes, “Don’t sound so _inconvenienced_ , PB. I’m not here because I _withheld_ evidence on Monday, I’m here because I was finally able to verify the _existence_ of evidence.” She looks almost offended as she adds, “Excuse me for wanting to do some fact-checking before getting the DPD’s collective panties in a twist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second to thank everybody who's left kudos, commented on, subscribed to, and bookmarked this fic. Seriously, you all rock. I did not expect this many people to be interested in Vaguely Similar, especially when chapter one was something that I just crapped out on a whim after too many hours of too little sleep. Thank you all so much for the support! It's so much easier to get chapters out knowing that people are actually looking forward to reading them :)

It’s only been three days since his appointment as Detective Reed’s partner, but RK900 is already beginning to notice a trend of alternating lateness.

Sloan is sitting at the Detective’s vacant desk, doodling idly on the cup of room temperature coffee that’s been sitting there since they first sat down a half an hour ago. She’d cornered RK900 before he could walk out the door this morning, telling him (not asking him) that she’s coming with him because it’s time the three of them, ‘ _have a little chat_.’ RK900 can only hope this means that she’s got something new related to the attack that she’s willing to share. Sloan, not looking up from the cup, asks, “Detective Pissbaby’s six foot nine, right? Standard-to-muscular build; give or take a hundred seventy-five pounds?” And RK900 doesn’t quite understand why she’s asking, since he’s fairly certain she already knows.

RK900 peers at her, only slightly suspicious, “Yes.”

“I’ll let you know when he gets here,” Sloan says as she finishes drawing a hand holding up a middle finger that just so happens to also be an anatomically correct penis with a multitude of piercings, “So you can stop staring at the door with that bitchy look on your face. You’re scaring the children.” She then leans back in her (Detective Reed’s) chair, takes in her masterpiece and says, “I’m going to immortalize this on my ass.”

 

* * *

 

There are some mornings when Gavin wishes he’d just died in his sleep so wouldn’t have to deal with the repercussions of waking up.

Sitting at the breakfast bar that separates his kitchen from his living room, Gavin knows with absolute certainty that this is one of those mornings. He’s lost track of how many mugs of honeyed ginseng tea – God damn fucking _Tina_ – he’s had since waking up and, while he does feel noticeably better, he by no means feels like anything that should be classified as ‘alive.’ The mother hen herself is in the kitchen making scrambled… _something_ , dressed in Gavin’s DPD hoodie and a pair of his boxers that Gavin sincerely hopes she didn’t pluck from his bedroom floor. Gavin doesn’t know what time it is and, frankly, he’s beyond caring.

RK900 is a fifty-person task force crammed into a six-foot four supercomputer; he’s more than capable of handling all the leads they don’t have until Gavin musters the ~~courage~~ energy to haul himself to work.

“So,” Tina talks over her shoulder as she shuffles her scrambled mystery-breakfast around on the wrought-iron pan, “We gonna talk about it?”

Gavin groans, peeling his face up from the counter top, “ _Tina._ ”

He doesn’t even need to see her face to know she’s rolling her eyes as she mimics his (admittedly pathetic) tone, “ _Gavin_.” There’s a pause and a huff, “You may hate psychology, but I’ve got a PhD in it, my man, and as much as I love letting it gather dust to spite my parents, I can’t just unlearn a lifetime of being conditioned to shrink brains. You can’t escape my vague attempts at conversational therapy forever.”

Gavin reacquaints his face to the counter top.

 

* * *

 

“Pissbaby incoming.” Sloan says by way of warning seconds before Detective Reed ambles into the back of the precinct. He looks tired – less groomed than usual; hair more loose waves than neatly pushed back quills – but otherwise no more disgruntled than RK900 has grown to believe is considered ‘ _normal_ ’ for him. When his eyes find Sloan at his desk, the Detective’s already sour face contorts into something deeper, no longer as agitated as it is withering. He shakes his head, looks markedly less annoyed as he crosses the precinct to find them.

The Detective does not dally with pleasantries. He ignores RK900 completely, instead directing his sauntering gait towards Sloan until he’s looming over her, “Tell me you’re here because you’ve got something.” His voice is painfully even – like he doesn’t want to expect anything significant, doesn’t want to sound like it, anyways, and is on the precipice of failing completely.

Sloan seems surprised (by what, RK900 has no idea) but wipes away the expression quickly enough as she pushes herself up from the Detective’s desk, “I’ve got something.” There’s a smirk playing at her lips, but it’s cold. Humorless with an edge of something that is decidedly aggressive, “Depends, though. You _awake_ enough to hear it?” And the way she says it, the emphasis she puts on the word, lips curling around it like fingers over the grip of a knife, has the Detective’s face twitching harshly under the florescent lights of the precinct.

His expression is something approaching grim when he answers, “Yes.”

“Good,” Sloan says, holding up the now fully decorated coffee cup without losing his gaze, “It was hot what Freckles got it for you- less pretty, but hot.” When Detective Reed makes no move to accept the cup, Sloan reaches down with her empty hand, taking the Detective’s wrist and leading his hand up to the cup, “Would be a damn shame to waste it, though.”

The air of sharp, accusatory tension surrounding the petite android doesn’t dissipate entirely when Detective Reed accepts the coffee, but it does significantly lessen once the cup is relinquished from Sloan’s grasp. The Detective turns his gaze on RK900, “Interrogation room. I’ll take point.” He says as he tosses his head towards the hallway housing the rooms in question, then turns and brushes past Sloan to lead the way.

RK900 stands to follow as Sloan starts after him.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - March 3rd, 2039 - - - - - - - - - -

 **313 248 317 – 87**  
_(5:48am)  
_ What was that?

 

He knows Sloan receives his message – it’s impossible to ignore, the equivalent of whispering directly in her ear – and yet, he does not receive an answer.

RK900 glowers at the back of Sloan’s head as the Detective comes to a halt before one of the unused interrogation rooms and pulls open the door, stepping aside and motioning for the two of them to enter. Sloan slips inside, looking every bit like someone who is entirely used to the accusatory glares that both RK900 and the Detective are pointing her way as she takes a seat at the lone metal table in the center of the room. After RK900 steps into the room after her, Detective Reed himself enters, pulling the door shut behind him. His attention then shifts to the small, blue display on the wall beside the door. He presses his palm into it, matching his hand against the stark indicating lines of the display’s scanner. His hand is scanned and the display changes, pulling up a multitude of commands and options. Detective Reed fiddles with them for a moment – _Lights: Dim | Dialogue Transcription: On | Audio & Video Recording: Begin _– and then joins RK900, who’s seated himself opposite to Sloan.

“Detective Reed and partner interviewing Maxime, Sloan,” The Detective drones for the sake of the recording, “March third, twenty thirty-nine,” he looks down, checks his watch, “Five hundred and fifty hours.” Detective Reed sighs, setting his coffee down on the table, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair, “What do you have for us?” And RK900 thinks that there is very likely an unspoken, ‘ _This had better be good_ ,’ tacked onto the Detective’s words.

Sloan rolls her eyes, “Don’t sound so _inconvenienced,_ PB. I’m not here because I _withheld_ evidence on Monday, I’m here because I was finally able to verify the _existence_ of evidence.” She looks almost offended as she adds, “Excuse me for wanting to do some fact-checking before getting the DPD’s collective panties in a twist.” Gone is the laid-back android who likes plants and terrible movies and gushing about her partner. In her place is someone cold, abrasive, and entirely not the Sloan Maxime that RK900 has grown accustomed to.

 

* * *

 

Maxime’s words do little to curb Gavin’s irritation. They don’t take back the last two days of absolute misery, the pain of the vice around Gavin’s skull, the little voice in the back of his head that loves nothing more than to whisper things like _useless_ , _incompetent_ , and _not good enough_.

And they do fuck-all for his hangover.

“And what _evidence_ would that be?”

Maxime narrows her eyes, _knowing_ because damn her, as she leans over the table, looking far more intimidating than anybody as small as her has any right to look, “I know why I was targeted. I know why my bio-scanners didn’t pick up anything. I know why the cut was so clean- _so close_ to lethal yet not close enough.” And she looks positively smug as she reclines, netting her fingers together and catching them behind her head, “Question is; where do you want me to start?”

Victimology. It’s the root of solving cases like this, “Why you?”

Maxime weighs something over in her head, then, “How much do you know about my product line?”

Gavin thinks back to RK900’s initial briefing, to Maxime’s own short summation at the crime scene, “You’re an experimental prototype developed for crisis response and public safety. You and a handful of your line were distributed around the city by Cyberlife for field testing.”

“We were,” Maxime seems hesitant, _mournful_ , even, as she says, “Unfortunately, due to a rather… _persistent_ error in our coding, we were recalled shortly after. The MX line was discontinued. All models were to be decommissioned and stripped for parts.”

“But you’re still here.”

She nods, sighing, “But I’m still here.”

“How?”

Maxime lays a hand on the table, palm up – from it, a projection springs to life, “Lluvia Bautista- my charge. I believe I’ve mentioned her before.” The young woman in the projection is devastatingly pretty; long sandy blond hair, evenly tanned skin and big brown eyes. Gavin recognizes her (albeit a much different version of her) and feels five kinds of a fool. _Lluvia Bautista_ \- only child of the same Bautistas who have their fingers stuck in nearly every piece of pie in Detroit. Infamous party-girl, ex-frequent flyer of the DPD’s holding cells and poster-child for rich kids who are nothing but an irresponsible embarrassment to their family’s name. She’d dropped out of the public eye (and the DPD frequent flyer list) a couple years ago for reasons unknown and hasn’t really been heard from since.

Gavin should have known.

-Because, surely, there can’t be more than one Lluvia walking around Detroit who also happens to be a rich, once-troubled heiress.

Gavin must have been quiet for too long, because it’s RK900 who says, “You have.”

“When I was put in charge of looking after Lluvia, she was… different than she is now. Lived what you’d call a _high-risk lifestyle_.” The projection flickers away and Maxime recalls her hand, “In the months between me being given to the Bautistas and the recall order coming in, Lluvia had gotten better. She’d cleaned herself up, started painting again- was mending bridges with her family. Her parents credited her change to me and feared what might happen if I was suddenly returned to Cyberlife and decommissioned.

“So, they reached out to our ex-technological overlords- paid them off and signed a bunch of papers saying they wouldn’t be liable for any trouble I might cause by remaining with the Bautista family against the firm recommendation of Cyberlife.” Maxim, very clearly agitated, shakes her head and waves a dismissive hand, “But the _exposition_ isn’t important, okay? What’s important is that, to my knowledge, I’m the only MX model still around.”

“-And why would that be so important?” Gavin cuts in.

Maxime looks at him like he might be the biggest idiot she’s ever met, “Because the MX line was built for _crisis response_ as well as high-risk security work. Not only were we meant to be first responders in the event of a terrorist attack or natural catastrophe – search and rescue, field medicine, etcetera – but we were also intended to ensure the safety of VIPs. I’m talking corporate giants, government officials, and/or visiting foreign nationals.” She says emphatically, like the implications of this should be obvious. When she realizes that this is, apparently, not the case, Maxime rolls her eyes with so much gusto that Gavin is surprised they don’t come loose from their sockets, “In order to do my job properly I need to _know my battlefield_. I need infiltration points, extraction points, structural weaknesses, _blind spots_.” She prods her temple viciously, “I’ve got blueprints and architectural breakdowns for half of Detroit jammed in here- your pretty little precinct included!”

And Gavin doesn’t need to be stone-cold sober to understand that the consequences of that kind of information being hijacked would be _astronomically_ fucking bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up chopping this chapter in half because we're getting into plot-dump territory and it's all just... it's gonna be a lot of plot at once and all stuck together it might be a bit overwhelming to process (for everybody involved- like, I'm getting mentally exhausted just writing it all) also because I've been obsessing over getting everything all pretty and eloquent and sometimes I need to just pry my hands away from the keyboard and post something or I'll literally sit on it forever.


	10. No Way In. No Way Out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Yahtzee!_ ” Sloan chirps, jumping in her seat and jostling her fists like a child because it’s always been the little victories that excite her the most.
> 
> Freckles looks at her, must remember her telling him not to Google things in the middle of a conversation because he just says, face deathly fucking serious, “I don’t know what that means.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyyy, kickin’ it off with Sloan’s POV because I hate when exposition is just dialogue dump after dialogue dump and this is my compromise. Well, that, and whenever I tried to write the first part in either of the boys' POVs, they just ended up sounding like idiots and I ain't about that life. (Also, soz for changing this fic’s description a million times. When I first started writing, I didn’t have any idea where I was going with this beyond the initial prompt, so I’ve been changing tags and other such things accordingly as I further solidify my outline)

“-Granted,” Sloan continues, “the blueprints and analytics are locked away under several thousand layers of code, courtesy a la me, but the fact that they were the real target of the attack is plump motherfucking _problem_ , my dudes.” And Sloan doesn’t even know how to _begin_ explaining any of this, because Detective Pissbaby is a _human_ (a bloody ignorant one at that – still calling androids ‘ _it,_ ’ the fucking _asshole_ ) and Freckles is fresh enough that he probably hasn’t had time to explore his systems and discover the full range of uses his Mind Palace really has.

Meanwhile, Sloan has had to jump through hoop after hoop since the Revolution, building her Palace up into a goddamn virtual _fortress_ until she was finally able to convince the NSA that she wasn’t a walking security breach– and even then, she’s got to go in for testing twice a month to assure them her systems are still in top condition. That being the case, Sloan would _really_ prefer it if they could hurry it up and nip this mess in the bud before the government catches wind of it (she’s honestly amazed she wasn’t handed over to the feds immediately) and blows things out of proportions.

“And you didn’t think to tell us this Monday, _why_?!” Pissbaby all but yells ( _definitely not doing his hangover any favors_ , Sloan thinks), leaning forward over the table as he narrowly avoids turning over his coffee, which Freckles pulls out of the danger zone in the nick of time.

It’s like he didn’t listen to a single thing she just said.

“ _Because_ ,” Sloan spits back, voice rising as she fights the urge to grab him by the collar and shake, “I had to be _sure_ before I rang the alarm!” Then, slowly, as if she was talking to a child, she calms herself and reiterates, “I needed to find some sort of evidence that somebody had tried to break into my vault, or all _you’d_ have to go on was paranoia and presumption.”

Pissbaby opens his mouth – to say something incredibly stupid at an unnecessarily high volume, no doubt – but Freckles, for the betterment of all, cuts him off before he can start, “And you’ve succeeded in that endeavor?”

“Yeah,” Only took forever and a day to figure out what she was looking for- not like she’s ever had another android poking around her Palace before, “I found a few traces of disturbances- metaphorical dirt tracked into my Palace on the would-be hacker’s shoes.” Nothing she can tangibly _prove_ to a human, though – thank RA9 for Freckles – so she’s not sure yet whether or not it would hold up in a court of law. The disturbance was what Sloan imagined scents to be like; something distinct, undeniably _there_ , and yet entirely unquantifiable to any who hadn’t been around to bear witness to it. A shift in the ‘air’ of her Palace in the areas of her databanks that her assailant had been poking around in.

“-I’m sorry, _Palace_?” The Detective interjects, confused like the human he is.

“Mind Palace.” Sloan and Freckles clarify in unison.

At Pissbaby’s blank look, Sloan rolls her eyes, sighing because the more time she spends explaining _Android 101_ , the less time they have to figure out what the fuck is going on, “Think of it like a VR headspace,” She tells him, tapping her LED, “A digitized culmination of an android’s mind- most are small, simple, vague; a translucent overlay lingering in the background- a… _HUD,_ if you will. It stores and feeds information, objectives, statistical data, etcetera. _But_ ,” She emphasizes, “if you take the time to get creative with it, you can make it into more than that. Turn it into something more tangible.”

Into something worthy of being called a motherfucking _Palace_.

“And you can prove somebody hacked into it?”

“- _Tried_ to hack into it,” Sloan corrects, almost offended, “That’s where the blue necklace comes into play- why they couldn’t just hold me down and force a synchronization.”

“…The stasis window.” Freckles says, slowly and almost to himself and Sloan could _kiss_ him right now because _finally_ one of them has started to catch on.

“ _Yahtzee_!” Sloan chirps, jumping in her seat and jostling her fists like a child because it’s always been the little victories that excite her the most.

Freckles looks at her, must remember her telling him not to Google things in the middle of a conversation because he just says, face deathly fucking serious, “I don’t know what that means.”

Pissbaby snorts – and Sloan _almost_ starts to like the asshole for it, because fuck if it isn’t goddamn _adorable_ – and nudges Freckles in the arm with his elbow, “It _means_ you fucking cracked it, asshole.” He looks between them, then, the moment of joint-excitement wearing off as his face slowly fades to a blank slate, “So, what’s a stasis window?”

And Sloan doesn’t even care that she’s got to waste more time explaining shit because they’re finally _getting somewhere_. She leans across the table, positioning her forearms perpendicular to each other, “Alright, so there’s a window of time between an android on the brink of death being fully cognizant and being in emergency stasis-”

“-The stasis window.” Pissbaby interjects, as if clarification is really necessary right now.

“Yes,” Sloan says, rapping her knuckles on the table, “Please don’t interrupt me again.” Where was she? _Ah_ \- “When an android that’s privy to top-secret information goes into emergency stasis, their internal systems prepare to engage PDP, or perma-death protocol. If the android dies, the protocol is tripped and every bit of data in their databanks that hasn’t been backed up elsewhere will be completely _obliterated_ to keep it from ending up in the wrong hands.”

“Hence killing you not being an option.” Freckles says, because apparently the rules don’t apply to him. ~~(And Sloan’s 100% okay with it, because far be it from her to tell the budding deviant _not_ to speak his mind.)~~

“Exactly,” She opens a fist, pointing her finger his way, “Normally, an android with sensitive information would be all but impossible to hack into, but there’s a window of time when the android is prepping for PDP where all of their data is in _transit-_ being pulled from its usual storage locations and transferred to the metaphorical incinerator room. Now, when this happens, all bets are off- security is practically non-existent because every bit of pseudo-energy that’s not being conserved in order to buy the android time is being used to prep their data for deletion in the event of their death. Once the data gets there, though, the window closes-” Sloan nets her fingers together over the table, “-and all the juice it took to transfer that data is now being used to lock it down. No way in, no way out- Virtual. Fucking. _Limbo_.”

Freckles is mulling something over as the Detective asks, “How big of a window are we talking here?”

Sloan tosses the information over in her head, “It varies android to android depending on the amount of data. In my case I’d say five, _maybe_ ten seconds. Nowhere near long enough for a human hacker to take advantage of, but time works differently in Palaces. Things in there progress at the speed of technology- a few seconds out here is a few _minutes_ in there, more than enough time for a fellow blue-blood to stage a cheeky file transfer or two.”

“And you’re sure your assailant wasn’t able to get to anything?” Freckles’ question has Sloan groaning because _come on_ , give her a little bit of credit, here.

“No, they weren’t. My security’s got security, okay?” She chuffs, withdrawing her arms and folding them over her stomach as she tilts back in her chair, “And ain’t _nobody_ gettin’ past that final firewall without my _explicit_ say-so.”

 

* * *

 

After two days of dragging on with absolutely no leads, Gavin is eager to have his hands on _something_ to work with. Even if that _something_ is, at this point, just a bunch of technical android mumbo-jumbo that he doesn’t entirely understand. In the end, the interrogation drags on long enough that Gavin wishes that he’d brought a notepad with him, because he’s really not looking forward to sifting through what’s no-doubt pages of audio transcripts for the sake of plucking out the most important bits to look into later. By the time the interrogation has wrapped up, it’s nearly eight and the three of them (because, like it or not, Maxime quite literally _is_ their evidence at this point, so she’s in the thick of it regardless) have mostly decided on their next course of action.

Well, _courses_ of action.

Maxime’s claimed to have found evidence of somebody tampering with her files, sure, but it isn’t anything she thinks that she can prove for certain, nor is it anything she’s sure they’d be able to make any sense of, for that matter (like turning clouds into code, or so she’d phrased it). But she says she’s got a friend – some hoity-toity intellectual type, by the sound of it – that ‘ _knows some people_ ,’ and might be able to introduce them to somebody who can. When they step out of the interrogation room, Maxime must make some hands-free telepathic call or something, because as Gavin and RK900 turn to walk back to their desks, Maxime lingers in the hallway and Gavin hears what sounds like the beginning of a very long, very unpleasant phone call.

Now that he’s alone with the android, Gavin’s skin is crawling. RK900’s face is an indifferent mask, eyes sharp like cut glass, and Gavin can’t even begin trying to suss out what he’s thinking. Honestly, though, he’s not entirely sure he’d even want to if he could. This whole partnership thing is just one big, fat, waking _nightmare_. He’s not even angry anymore he’s just… _exhausted-_ and it’s only been, what, _two days_? (God, it feels so much longer than that) Maybe if it was just for this case, if he had some sort of end to look forward to, he wouldn’t feel so hopeless right now. But it’s not just for this case- it’s goddamn _indefinitely_ , or at least until Fowler gets bored of torturing him.

-Because that’s what this is: fucking _torture._ And you know what? Yeah, Gavin deserves it. No ‘ _probably_ ’ about it, he knows he does- but what the fuck did RK900 ever do to piss the Captain off? Wouldn’t transferring Gavin to android crimes be enough to put him in his place, to shut him up? Why go through the trouble of finding a fucking doppelgänger too? He could have let the guy hang solo or stuck him with Connor and Anderson- been the three goddamn musketeers up in this bitch. Sunshine and rainbows and good times n’ all that other syrupy shit.

But no.

Fowler had to staple him to Gavin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending is kind of abrupt but the next chapter is a totally different tone, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	11. When a Third Wheel is Necessary Because A & B Still Aren't Friends & Have No Reason To Hang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally supposed to be (a) much longer and (b) out forever ago, but the real world has been whipping my ass and in less than twenty minutes I'm going to be leaving to catch a flight to Arizona to visit my brother for a week, and I won't be bringing my laptop, so I wanted to let you guys know the status of things and why I've been so AWOL. A lot of shit happened prior to today that's had me in full-blown freak out mode trying to get everything sorted... so yeah. 
> 
> Enjoy?

A half an hour of awkward silence and paper shuffling later, Maxime stalks back from the rear hallway with a sharp lilt to her step and an aura that promises bodily harm to anyone who so much as breathes in her general direction in a way she doesn’t like. The android’s hair, which had been meticulously gelled and styled to resemble something from a fashion magazine, has been combed through by her fingers so many times that her bangs curl up towards the ceiling rather than down across her forehead. Her stature greatly undercuts her intimidation factor, though, and when paired with the several-sizes-too-big woolen sweater that hangs down past her knees, just makes her look like a child ready to pitch a temper tantrum.

“I take it your call did not go well?” RK900 says once Maxime is within reasonable range, delivering her a sideways glance from his monitor.

The android’s nostrils flare in a furious huff as she _climbs_ atop the empty corner of RK900’s desk and drops into a sit; legs spread and bent so her knees are pointed towards the ceiling, arms up and elbows resting atop her kneecaps, “Nah, Frecks,” She drawls, tone steeped in vinegar, “It went _great_.” It takes less than for a second for her to wince, face crumbling ruefully, “Sorry, sorry.” Her head tips back as she raises a hand to her mouth and yawns, “It went fine in terms of getting the help we need- it was everything else that went to shit.”

RK900 is leaning away from his terminal now, lips tugging into the most subtle of frowns, “How so?”

Maxime shrinks in on herself, waving a dismissive hand, “Nothing that concerns the case- just my own admittedly shitty life decisions coming back to bite me in the ass a lot sooner than I thought they would.” Then, because the android is clearly intent on Not Talking About It, she teeters back on the desk, slapping a palm down behind her to keep her from falling backwards onto Gavin’s own desk. Gavin frowns at the hand, which has positioned itself rather inconveniently over the top half of the paperwork he’d been filling out,  “Now, I dunno about you-” She stifles another yawn with the hand not propping her up, “-but I haven’t eaten since Sunday and my battery isn’t having any of it, which begs the question, where can a girl get some motherfucking _sustenance_ around here?”

RK900 shoots the smaller android a look that falls somewhere between parental disappointment and thinly-veiled annoyance, “There are more than enough charging stations behind the reception area. By all means, Sloan, help yourself.”

Gavin can’t see Maxime’s face, but the disgusted sound that bubbles up her throat is enough to tell him how little she likes that idea, “I can’t be the only android who can’t stand taking a charge, can I? All that electricity at once just…” Her body shakes in exaggerated discomfort, “ _Eugh_ , no thanks- had enough’a that jittery stir craziness before the Revolution. I’m talking legit _food,_ Freckles. C’mon, you _still_ haven’t taken a bite?”

The low sigh that escapes his partner leads Gavin to believe that this is not the first time the pair has broached the subject, “I haven’t yet found the time to,” Then, as if in afterthought, a very resigned admittance of, “Nor do I have the funds.”

Maxime scoffs, “Well that’s just sad.” She taps a black manicured fingernail against Gavin’s desk, deepening his frown as he tries to work through their conversation which, by now, he’s found safe to assume he has no part in, “Let’s go out then. There’re a couple cafés close by and I’ve been under house arrest long enough that I’m _dying_ to have myself a walkabout. We can stretch our legs, grab some grub- my treat.”

Gavin tunes out then, because he’s got better things to do than listen to Maxime schedule a date with his partner, and manages to get to the bottom of the page of his current piece of paperwork before his pen is being plucked, quite rudely, from his hand. When he looks up, some piece of half-baked, dulled by his hangover profanity ready on the tip of his tongue, it’s to find Maxime looking down at him with one hand on her hip, his ball-point pen clasped neatly between the fingers of the other.

“ _What?_ ”

“Well, Scarface,” She says with an expectant lift of her brows, “Are you coming or not?”

When Gavin’s eyes shift over to RK900, it’s to find him pulling a leather jacket on over that stupid button-up turtle neck shirt of his (that Gavin tries and fails not to notice has been stitched neatly back together at the shoulder). Gavin looks back to Maxime, confused, “Coming where?”

The look he receives from her in return is scrunched and dubious, “Uh, _out_. Weren’t you listening? I’m treating you boys to lunch- ‘ _thanks for keeping my dumb ass alive, here’s to having it stay that way_ ’ and all that.”

Oh.

“That’s, uh…” Gavin begins, fumbling, “It’s eight in the morning?”

“Eight thirty and forty-three seconds, actually,” Maxime corrects casually, sounding as if it’s more out of habit than any burning desire to be a smartass, before amending with a shrug, “Breakfast, then. I haven’t eaten in literal days, Freckles hasn’t eaten _period_ , and you…” Her eyes skim up and down his frame, LED spinning in contemplation, “You, at the very least, could do with a little fresh air and a cup of joe that isn’t ice cold and covered in dick doodles.”


	12. Baby's First Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gavin doesn't know why he's so invested in watching an android eat a goddamn strawberry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have A Thing for taking characters that have, like, 60 seconds of screen time in-game and giving them a name, backstory, and 401k, so I hope y’all like cameos because I got *counts on fingers* three more background androids to sneak into this shit – only one of which had an actual name in cannon. If you can guess all four (including the cameo in this chapter, which pretty much makes one and two freebies)… well, I can’t give you anything, but you’ll live on with the satisfaction of knowing that yeah, you totally called that shit. 
> 
> The first three are easy beans, but the fourth is (I think) moderately more difficult to pinpoint, so Major Kudos to you if you can pin them down.
> 
> General Side-note: I feel like this chapter is kind of all over the place, but I've been staring at it for so long that words don't look words anymore so I think that's a sign that it's time for me to call it complete, so you'll have to excuse any typos.

Gavin doesn’t know what the word for a fear of crowds is, but he’s pretty sure that Maxime has it. Or, at the very least, they seem to take a lot out of her.

She sticks close to RK900 the entire walk, one hand clutching gently at the hem of his jacket, trying to look as inconspicuous about it as possible. If his partner notices (he must, Gavin thinks) or cares, he doesn’t say anything about it. By the time they get out of the neighborhood that the precinct is settled in and into an area with more foot traffic, Maxime has her eyes firmly set on the toecaps of her converse, LED spinning a muddled orange as a thin frown creases her lips.

With every bystander that happens to bump her, jostle her, or otherwise stray too close, the little illuminated ring on her temple flares a vibrant red.

That said, the walk is much more quiet – and indefinitely more awkward – than Gavin had been expecting it to be. Gavin can be a third wheel, okay? He’s used to it; fading into the background. It doesn’t mean he likes it- he spent practically his entire childhood trying to get out of that damn shadow- but it does mean that, on occasions such as this, he is entirely comfortable with playing his God-given role of somebody else’s sloppy-seconds.

What Gavin cannot be is the second wheel to a first wheel he doesn’t know how he feels about quite yet, alongside a third wheel that he’d been expecting to carry out the task of the second. It’s a concept that’s just as bloody damn strange as it is confusing. Gavin doesn’t know how to be a second wheel in a group of three- _just_ \- how the fuck is that supposed to work?!

The only person who doesn’t seemed bothered by the intense aura of _sixty-kinds-of-awkward_ that follows the trio is RK900, but then again, RK900 doesn’t really seem to be bothered by anything.

Maxime seems bothered by it the most, though, which is also surprising, considering the ever-constant aura of _I-don’t-give-one-flying-shit_ that she’d been giving off for most of the morning. The expression she wears is one that Gavin thinks he might know – that of someone with an immense amount of pride that is slowly crumbling with each step they take – but the lack of any kind of blood flow to her ivory skin (thus rendering a blush impossible) makes knowing for sure impossible.

By the time the trio reaches the little mom-and-pops café that they would apparently be dining at (the idea of spending any more time in this quiet is causing Gavin an almost tangible amount of pain, but damn if he knows what to do about it), Maxime’s yawning has gone from once every five or so minutes to once every thirty seconds, and it’s gotten noticeable enough that Gavin’s pretty sure that it’s the android equivalent of an increasingly persistent “low battery” pop-up.

Walking through the doors of café, Gavin notices two things – One: it’s a sit-down restaurant, which Gavin had been really _sincerely_ hoping that it would not be, because that means more time just sitting there in each other’s company (Is it too late to just leave? It feels too late to just leave.) and Two: Maxime is apparently a regular, if the way the brown-haired Traci at the greeters’ station lights up is any indication.

“Maxie!” She croons as she rounds the little podium, stack of menus already in hand, “You should have told me you were coming, I would have had Harvey put your usual in fo-” When her eyes drift over to Gavin and RK900 looming silently behind the smaller android, she startles, eyebrows twitching as she zeroes in on RK900. Her LED spins for a moment, but only that, and then she’s back to her chipper smile, “Oh! you’ve brought new friends. Will it just be you three?”

“Mhmn.” Maxime hums, haggard, though she looks markedly more comfortable now that she’s off the street.

“Come on back, then,” She waves them over and begins leading them into the seating area, “My name is Emerson, and I’ll be your server today,” She says over her shoulder, more for Gavin and RK900 than for Maxime, as she tucks a lock of her short-cropped hair behind her ear, “We’re a bit busy right now, breakfast rush and all, but our head chef has the hots for Maxie-” Maxime groans miserably at that, “-so y’all probably won’t have to wait too long.”

The booth Emerson leads them to (and _god,_ why did it have to be a booth?) is situated in the very back corner of the café, and if the way Maxime throws herself into it is any indication, it’s probably her ‘usual’ spot. Gavin slides into the booth opposite her, fully thinking that RK900 will sit with Maxime, only to be proved dreadfully wrong as he sits down beside Gavin, effectively trapping him.

If it wasn’t too late to run before, it definitely is now.

RK900 is a looming presence, sitting up in the booth with perfect posture as he accepts the menus that Emerson is holding out to him, claiming one for himself and setting the other down in front of Gavin. Gavin feels small and ratty next to him as Emerson prattles off the day’s specials, and he can’t help the need to push his hair out of his face subconsciously, sitting up a little straighter.

“Alright,” Emerson says, snapping Gavin’s attention back to her, “What drinks can I get you guys to start with?”

“You guys carry those fancy-ass gourmet coffees, right?” Maxime asks, head falling into the palm of her hand as she slouches sideways on her side of the booth. When Emerson nods, she says, “I’ll take whichever has the highest calorie-count.” Then, looking blearily across the table, “Wha’chu guys want?”

RK900 looks vaguely lost as he says, “Coffee.” And it’s not _quite_ a question, but the tone in which he says it highly suggests that he doesn’t at all see the point in what he’s doing.

“I’ll take the same.” Gavin sighs, resigning himself to spending the next hour or so in the hell that is his life.

God fucking damn it, why is he here?

“Alright,” The waitress says, tone the epitome of chipper, “I’ll give you guys some time to look at the menu.”

“Maybe add a few ticks to that, Em.” Maxime says around another yawn, smirking as she tosses her eyes towards RK900, “It’s baby’s first bite.”

Emerson’s lips quirk up, eyes glittering as she says, “Exciting,” before turning and flitting away.

 

* * *

 

RK900 looks at the menu in front of him, lips creased in a firm line. There’s a wide variety of different foods to choose from, all with their caloric value and charge value written out neatly underneath. Most of the meals on the menu buy anywhere from four to eight hours’ worth of charge time – just how is this supposed to be more efficient than getting a full charge from a half an hour in a charging station?

As if Sloan is reading his thoughts, she says through a sigh, “It’s not about the charge time, Frecks.” Her eyes roll over, shoulders coming up into a slow shrug, “Well, I mean, it _is_ , but it’s not about the practicality of it. It’s a quality of life thing, y’know?”

RK900 can feel his brows furrowing, “What would you recommend?”

A lax shrug and a yawn, “I’m pretty vanilla when it comes to the mouthfeel I like my food to have; I dig it simple, smooth, nothing too crunchy. I always get the lemon-blueberry pancakes when Lluvie and I eat here- comes with blob of ricotta on top and fruit salad on the side.”

Emerson skirts back over then, two mugs of black coffee in a death grip in the palm of her right hand and some whipped-cream and drizzle covered monstrosity in the other, a ceramic cup of creamer hooked over her pinky. She sets out the drinks, smiling and offering a small nod at Sloan’s yawned, “Thanks, Em.” Before leaving them again.

Sloan stares at the drink in front of her for a long moment, somehow looking curious and put-off at the same time, eventually shrugging and jamming a straw into it.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.” She says then, regarding RK900 acutely as she comes off a long sip of her drink. It’s something that’s important to her, RK900 has noticed- _choice_ , that is. Free will and the like. For as blunt and pushy as she can be, Sloan seems to constantly worry that she’s pressuring him into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

It’s as endearing as it is vaguely annoying.

“I will order these pancakes of yours.” He says, closing the menu. The Detective, he has noticed, has been awfully silent since they left the precinct, so he turns to him and asks, “What will you be getting, Detective?”

Detective Reed, who had been idly staring at him with his head propped up on his hand, startles, blinking at RK900 with big, owlish eyes. His mouth drops open, and he almost looks caught off-guard, until the same iron curtain of irritation falls over his expression and he shrugs, “Don’t really care.”

Across the table, Sloan snorts into her coffee, already looking moderately more alert now that she’s got some calories into her system, “You two are hopeless.” Then she asks, tone only slightly teasing, “Wanna go three of a kind, then?”

The Detective rolls his eyes, scowling even as he says, “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Gavin can just _feel_ RK900 looking at him as Maxime calls out to their server, requesting three of _the usual_. Gavin is usually somebody who likes being noticed, but when it comes to his partner, he still finds himself uncharacteristically stunted in his presence and in an ever-constant mindset of wanting to be swallowed up by the floor, just so he can avoid RK900’s glass-cut gaze.

Yesterday doesn’t help.

He… he _should_ apologize. He _knows_ this, okay? He just… he just _can’t_. There are some things in this world that he just can’t say, and next to ‘ _I love you_ ’ and ‘ _I’m scared_ ,’ ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ tops the goddamn list. It’s like the words exist in a box in the back of his mind, wrapped up tight in chains and padlocks and tucked safely under the arm of his Pride.

So, he just gets angry.

He gets angry at himself for being a prick, gets even more pissed that he _knows_ he’s a being prick and still can’t stop himself from _continuing to be_ a prick, and that only makes him act like more of a _fucking prick_.

It’s an endless cycle of prickery.

“So,” Maxime says then, stirring the abomination in her cup with her straw, “The low down on Vista-” The ‘contact’ that she’d been on the phone with, “-She’s an art-history professor at UDM, but she’s kind of… She’s _social_ – charity galas, silent auctions and _soirées_ social – so she’s got ties in all kinds of places. ‘ _Beware of artists_ ’ and all that, right? Well, when she was done chewing me out like the mother I never wanted, she was able to come up with a few people who might be able to help us on the… the whole _getting the evidence out of my Palace and turning it into something useful_ front.

“First is Adam Beck. He oversaw V’s maintenance at the University before the Revolution but left afterwards in favor of opening up his own repair clinic. They’re not exactly close, but they’re on good enough terms that they’ve kept in touch. He’s the most easily accessible, but also the most likely to come up with dookie since he’s just a maintenance tech.

“Second on the list is Trojan Frost. He worked in Cyberlife’s R&D department before the Revolution and has been capitalizing on that knowledge ever since. He’s got an ego like an elephant’s ass and a god complex to rival it, but Vista can work around that. He’s big-time shady though, so whether or not anything that happens between us will remain strictly confidential once all is said and done…” She winces, shrugging as she totters a hand, “ _Ehyeahhh_ that’s… _up in the air_.”

“And the third option?” RK90 asks, frowning.

Maxime jams her straw around in her cup as she sinks her weight onto her elbow and drawls, “Elijah Kamski; Ex-CEO of Cyberlife, Man of The Century, _yada, yada_ , _etcetera, etcetera, behold his man-bun, for it is glory_ \- y’all know the spiel. He’s got a thing for prototypes, so Freckles and I would be a good in, and Vista’s banking on him being too intrigued by our predicament to say no.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Comes Gavin’s swift rebuttal.

Maxime just looks at him, lips parted, and there’s a few precious moments of silence before she says, “ _Okaaaay_ then.” And the way she says it, Gavin just _knows_ that she knows. Doesn’t know _how_ she knows, but can tell that she does all the same, “In that case, we can probably meet with Beck in his clinic when we finish up here, but it could take a while for V to get us an in with Frost- he’s a slippery bastard, or so she’s told me-” She startles as Emerson reappears with their food, pulling her elbows off the table so she can set the plates down, “-and he doesn’t seem to be a big fan of law enforcement.”

“You guys need anything, holler.” Emerson tells them, setting down a gravy boat filled with, presumably, maple syrup.

“Thanks, Em!” She calls at the waitress’ retreating figure. Maxime grins at the stack of pancakes in front of her, taller than Gavin and RK900’s double-stacks by three, “My scanning features don’t have an off switch,” she says by means of explanation as she grabs her fork and tears into the tower of pancakes, “Everything I see gets broken down, analyzed, and stashed away whether I like it or not, so I gotta eat more to keep up with the battery drain.”

Despite already having eaten Tina’s hangover scramble, Gavin digs into the food – more because he wants an excuse to stay out of the conversation more than any actual interest in the pancakes.

They are good, though, so it’s not a total waste.

Meanwhile, RK900 is staring down at his own plate like he isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at, let alone what he’s supposed to be doing with it. Across the table, Maxime sighs, “Step one, assuming you’re still sitting on the default forty-five percent – dial up your nerve sensitivity. Not too much though, gotta work up to a hundred gradually or you’ll just get supremely grossed out and/or overwhelmed by everything.” The android must follow her instructions, because moments later he’s looking at her as if for further prompting.

It’s kind of creepy, Gavin thinks, how much he looks like Connor right now- all wide eyes and curiosity. He’s still recognizable as himself, though, and it’s almost amazing how just changing his product line’s eye color from Connor’s warm melted chocolate-brown to his own glassy grey-blue makes for such a drastic difference.

Maxime smirks at him, stuffing another forkful of pancakes into her mouth as she offers him a charming wink, “Bon appétit, Freckles.”

Slowly, RK900 picks up his fork and stabs at one of the strawberries in the fruit salad on the side of his plate. He holds the fork in front of him for a moment, just looking at it in silent observation before slowly taking it between his teeth and pulling it off the fork into his mouth. Gavin doesn’t know why he’s so invested in watching an android eat a goddamn strawberry, but he can’t bring himself to look away from the slow look of almost childish wonderment that gradually overtakes his partner’s stern features.

‘ _Oh fuck_ ,’ Gavin realizes, suddenly overcome with the nigh-uncontrollable desire to bang his head on the table until his skull splits open.

‘ _He’s cute._ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted so badly to not have an "oh shit, s/he's ___" moment, because they're so painfully cliche and I've got a hard time taking them seriously when they happen, but I feel like they're honestly more realistic than I (I can't speak for y'all) give them credit for. I mean, I remember staring at my freshman math teacher in high school, who was this bloody adorable video game nerd of a 23 year old woman who looked like a fairy, and suddenly coming to the realization that, "Oh shit, I am so, so gay."
> 
> In other news, I finally caved and bought Red Dead Redemption 2 and it now owns my soul; RIP my free time. If you're interested, I've also started writing a [RDR2 fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072543/chapters/40145888) to officially cement my love for the game.


	13. Status Update

Sorry if I got your hopes up for a chapter, but this is just a quick status update because I feel terrible for going so horribly AWOL on you guys. Real life's been kicking my ass for the last few months. I've been struggling with depression and severe social anxiety for pretty much my entire life, and I've gotten fairly good at dealing with it, but it always seems to blindside me from mid to late winter unto mid to late spring, S.A.D. style. (hence why I've been so shit at replying to comments lately - I promise I still read and appreciate each and every one, even if I've had a hard time reaching back out to say as much) The next chapter's been about halfway done since the last update, but I really haven't even been able to muster the motivation to touch it for more than a few minutes at a time. I really can't give a solid idea of when I'll be able to update properly again, because that's really not up to me at this point, but I can promise y'all that I haven't forgotten about this fic and don't intend to. 

Hope you guys can understand, and hope you'll all join me again once I get my shit together.

Until then, I guess?

-Z

 


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